


Rough Stones

by rubygirl29



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 51,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Blood Trail. When Vin's assailant escapes from jail, Chris and Vin go in pursuit of him; a chase that turns lethal and leads them to Purgatorio and a fateful encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

The sun beat down on the land; high August, hot and merciless in the dry plains outside of Four Corners. Vin Tanner reined in Peso, shoved his hat back and swiped his arm across his forehead. He breathed in the scent of dust and sage lifted by the midday sun and squinted against the glare of the harsh light reflecting off the landscape. He opened his canteen and took a deep swallow. The water was scarcely cool anymore but it cleansed the dust from his mouth. In the middle distance a narrow ribbon of green beckoned to him; he closed up his canteen, set his hat back on his head and kneed Peso towards the promise of water.

It wasn't much to speak of, just a narrow, grass-clogged channel of a stream scarcely deep enough for Peso to drink from, but Vin knew the gelding was as parched as he was. He dismounted and led him to the creek. Peso immediately buried his nose in the cool water.

"Feels good, huh?" He chuckled. He would have unsaddled the gelding, but that warning that was half instinct and half fear kept him too aware of the need for a quick escape. His life hadn't been like that for a while – he'd gotten used to having somebody at his back – but the memory of his ambush by a vengeful bounty, had brought all the old habits to full, screaming life. He splashed some of the water on his hot face and allowed himself the luxury of stripping off his hide coat. Hot as the air was, it felt cool once it struck his sweat-soaked shirt. He slid his suspenders from his shoulders and removed the sodden garment, and, feeling like a child again, he tugged off his boots and socks and shoved his toes into the cool water. He wiggled them into the silt and sighed with relief.

Lord, this felt good. Felt better than good to be out of town and away from the press of bodies and minds on his own. It had been a while and the memory of the last time he'd ridden out on his own still had the power to make him shudder and fight to repress the urge to look over his shoulder. Unconsciously, he reached back and fingered the rough ridges on his shoulder blade. Fresh scars laid over the old, silvery ones nobody had ever seen but Nathan.

Vin sighed and rested his head on his folded arms. Six weeks and he still ached, still felt the new skin tighten over his muscles when he stretched. He knew Chris had promised they'd go off for a few weeks, but the weeks had worn on and Clyde Darwell was still waiting to go to trial, held in the jail at Eagle Bend because Chris had called in a favor from the sheriff. He claimed the presence of Darwell made him sick, but Vin knew Larabee was tough enough to stand the stench. The real reason was that he didn't want Vin to have to deal with him, knew Vin couldn't deal with him. Maybe figured he'd do something to make that bounty on his head legitimate. Sometimes the gunslinger was too damn smart. A smile touched Vin's mouth. In all his years he'd never met the like of Chris Larabee. Never thought he'd have a place that seemed more like home than the tiny shack in Texas where he was raised by his grandpa.

Vin lay back on the grass, his hat tipped over his eyes. Alert as always for any sound or scent that was out of the ordinary, he allowed himself to slip into a light doze.

Safe. He felt safe here. Even with the horror of Darwell's whip on his skin, he knew his heart and soul were safe.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris burst out of the jail, a flimsy telegram clutched in one hand, the other resting on the butt of his gun as if ready to draw at the slightest provocation. Gloria Potter saw him striding down the boardwalk and retreated quickly into her store. She had come a long way from the first time she'd seen Larabee in town, but she was smart enough not to get in his way when he had that killer gleam in his eyes. Something or somebody had set him off and she watched him through the safety of her windows, curious, but with her heart fluttering in alarm. She couldn't deny her relief when he passed by the mercantile without a glance.

He banged his way into the Clarion office, startling Mary Travis into dropping a tray of blocks, fortunately already pressed. "Chris!" she exclaimed, ready to take him to task until she saw the look on his face, then she wiped her hands on her apron and frowned up at him. He hadn't even noticed her mishap; his eyes were hard and focused, his face taut with anger. She touched his arm and he nearly leapt away from her. "What is it? What's happened?"

He thrust the telegram at her. "Print this up and get the word out."

Mary read the telegram and raised troubled eyes to his. "Clyde Darwell? He's the man who nearly killed Vin." She frowned and reread the text. "How did he escape from jail?"

"How the hell should I know?" Chris said it like she was a ten-year-old child who had asked why the sky was blue.

"Isn't this Eagle Bend's problem?" Mary asked, slightly exasperated by Chris's attitude.

"No," he said shortly and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Mary was surprised when he did. "Shouldn't the U.S. Marshal–"

"You know why I can't go to the Marshals with this, Mary."

"The bounty?" She raised troubled eyes to his, seeing the answer to her question in their dark depths.

He nodded once. "I'll give two hundred dollars to anybody who can tell me his whereabouts."

"But you don't have the authority to set a reward," she argued.

"Maybe not, but Darwell flayed Vin to the bone and left him to die. I figure that gives me the right."  
"Two hundred dollars is a lot of money just for information," she said doubtfully.  
He looked at her. "Print it up." Then turned on his boot heel and left the office. Mary stared after him for a moment before she knelt and began gathering up the blocks she had dropped.

His words disturbed her. She knew Darwell had beaten Vin so severely that he had been unable to return to town for weeks. Nathan had kept the details of the injuries Vin had suffered a secret, but she also knew with the instincts of a woman and a reporter that they were more serious than anybody had guessed. When Vin had finally ridden into town a week ago, Mary had been shocked by how pale he looked; transparent nearly, and with a fragile wariness about him that had caught at her heart.

Chris, with a few succinct words, had painted her a picture of bloody revenge and hatred that made her sick to her stomach. She would print up the poster as Chris requested with one change; she would add her own money to the total reward – she didn't have much to spare, but a hundred dollars more might loosen a few tongues if Darwell were stupid enough to show his face around Four Corners.

He might be surprised to find out how many friends Vin Tanner had watching his back.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck was lounging, stretched across two chairs in the Standish Tavern, being entertained by watching Inez handle inebriated patrons, peddle food, and keep a sidelong vigil on him as he flirted with every woman who crossed his path. She was jealous. He knew it; no way would she be eyeing him if she weren't and that made him a very happy man.

That was until the bat-wing doors banged open and Chris Larabee strode in like the crack of doom. "Where's Vin?" he demanded, as if Buck had the answer to that question.

Buck sighed and swung his legs down as Chris loomed over him. "How the hell should I know? Last I saw he was heading towards the livery to get that demon horse of his and muttering something about the walls closin' in around him."

"Goddamn it, Buck! I told you to keep an eye on him."

Buck was starting to get irritated by Chris's glower. "You told me to tell you if he started lookin' kind 'a punk. Well, he looked just fine to me."

"He's about as far from fine as you can get." Chris grabbed Buck's shoulder. "Come on, we've got to go after him–"

Buck shrugged Chris's hand aside. "Hold on, there, ol' son. Last I looked, Vin was a grown man, not a wet-behind-the ears greenhorn who don't know east from west and north from south…"

Chris shoved the telegram into his hand and Buck read it, the laughter fading from his eyes and mouth as he read. "Chris, you don't think Darwell'd be dumb enough to come huntin' fer Vin?" he asked doubtfully.  
"He's smart enough to break out of jail. And that ain't a chance I'm willing to take."

"You goin' after Darwell?" Buck asked, one brow aslant.

"Hell, no, I'm going after Vin. You comin' with me?"

Buck considered. There was no telling what trouble Larabee could get into without somebody watching his back. "I reckon I'd better." Buck slapped a coin on the table to cover his drinks and together he and Chris went to track down their tracker.

Their first stop was the livery where Yosemite told them that Vin had ridden out about two hours ago heading south out of town.

"He didn't say where he was going?" Chris asked.

Yosemite scratched his chest, thought about it. "Nope, but it's awful hot. Said he was gonna find someplace cooler."

"Hell'd be cooler," Buck muttered.

Chris finished saddling Pony. What was cooler? Water, shade… someplace south of town… someplace not too far, because no matter how much Vin wanted to get out of Four Corners, he was in no shape for a long ride in this heat. He looked at Buck. "Mariposa creek."

"Ya think?"

"Yeah, I do. Makes sense, even to somebody as hard-headed as Vin." He set his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. "C'mon, let's bring him back safe."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin roused as the heat of the sunlight crept over his face. He sat up slowly, feeling hot and disoriented, thirsty. Peso was standing head down, lulled into the same lethargy that had overcome Vin. It was just a hot, lazy afternoon all 'round, Vin figured and was about to lay back down when Peso's ears pricked and his head came up. Startled and sensing more than hearing somebody approach, Vin drew the Mare's Leg, his heart hammering so hard in his chest it hurt to breathe. He snatched his shirt and boots from the ground and crossed silently on bare feet to Peso, took his bridle in hand and shushing him softly, drew him back towards the scrawny cottonwood trees that formed a screen at the deeper end of the creek.

Pain clutched at his still-healing ribs and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply like Nathan had told him. It didn't stop his heart from pounding or fear from quivering in the pit of his stomach. He only held his gun steady by an effort so draining that sweat scrawled down his back and beaded on his forehead like dew. His dry lips felt like they would crack at the slightest grimace. Next to him, Peso was still and quiet, his ears flicking back and forth and just the slightest crescent of white showing around the irises of his eyes. Skittish, but not unduly alarmed and not about to bolt. The damn mule was steadier than he was.

He heard two horses approaching at a walk. Didn't mean anything; could be anybody. Could be as innocent as he was, or a sick and twisted bastard like Darwell. Vin's throat tightened. His fingers gripped the Mare's Leg and he waited in the shelter of the dry cottonwood. The papery rub of branches all around him seemed like the echo of his nerves.

He waited, watching and aware that his finger was too tight on the trigger of his Mare's Leg. He blinked away the perspiration that clouded his vision and forced his finger to release some of the pressure. Wouldn't do to put a hole in some innocent rider.

Two riders. His vision partially obscured by the cottonwood branches shifting in the breeze, his throat so dry it hurt to swallow. The branches moved and swayed; Peso tossed his head. Vin closed his eyes against the dazzle of sunlight, opened them when the jangle of bridle and spurs made him startle like a scared kid.

A dark shadow loomed against the sun, paused on the low ridge above the banks of the creek; then a second shadow, not as dark, bigger. Voices, words indistinguishable, carried away on the wind.

The branches creaked, the leaves rustled and Peso whinnied.

The shadows turned, spurred by their riders and fighting against the tremors in his arms and thighs, Vin took a deep breath and stepped out from his cover, his Mare's Leg raised to his shoulder, the sights lined up, primed to kill.

For a heart-stopping moment, Chris didn't recognize the man in front of him. The whipcord body, the wild wind-tossed hair, the hard, blue glint of the eyes focused on him with the intensity of a cornered wolf. Even the man's mouth was drawn in a feral snarl.

Chris halted Pony, felt Buck pull back behind him. They both raised their hands slowly, sensing danger the way a man knew that a docile creature had been driven back to its true nature.

"Vin," Chris spoke softly, "you mind puttin' that gun down? Just me and Buck here."

The gun didn't waver, but the hammer came down slowly and the sights lowered from Vin's eyes. His arms dropped, the Mare's Leg slid from his hands to the ground. His body started trembling. His eyes went wide and rolled back in their sockets, then his body shuddered and folded into a heap of bony angles on the hard ground.

"Vin!" Chris was off Pony and at Tanner's side before Buck could even swing from the saddle. He gathered Vin close, supporting his lolling head. Without the bulk of the hide coat and layers of clothing, he was too thin; bone and sinew in Chris's arms. His body was hot, but he was shivering and sweating.

"Here's his shirt." Buck laid the garment over Vin's shoulders. "Got some water, too. I reckon he could use it." He held the canteen to Vin's lips while Chris steadied him. As the cool water trickled over his lips, Vin sputtered his way back to consciousness. His eyes opened, widened. His hand fisted in Chris's shirt as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"C-Chris?" he stammered.

"Yeah."

"W-what're ya doin' here? I coulda killed ya!"

"Lookin' for you. And you didn't." He stroked Vin's hair back from his forehead. "Good thing I found you."

Vin struggled upright, color returning to his pale cheeks. "I's fine 'til ya came ridin' in without givin' warnin'. Ya oughtta know better'n that." He took the canteen from Chris and drained it. "Well, ya seen me and I'm fine."

Chris arched a brow and looked at Buck. "He seem fine to you?"

Buck crouched and peered into Vin's eyes. "Let's see… white as a ghost, skinny as a half-starved coyote, looks like ten miles a' bad road…" He shook his head. "Looks fine t'me… if I was blind."

"There ain't nuthin' wrong with me 'at some peace and quiet ain't gonna cure. So why don't ya jist ride back t'town and I'll mosey in when I'm good an' ready." He pulled away from Chris's hold and tried to muster a glare.

There was a feisty glint in those eyes, but they were still shadowed. Chris looked at the scarcely healed scars on Vin's back and the way his arms were wrapped to protect his ribs. He shook his head. "Sorry, can't do that, pard."

"Aw, hell! Nate set ya up to this, didn't he?" Vin sounded disgusted.

"Nate doesn't even know you're gone," Buck said.

"Then why the hell are ya wandrin' around lookin' fer me?"

Chris sighed and took out the telegram. "Got this from the sheriff in Eagle Bend. Vin, Clyde Darwell broke outta jail."

If not for the brief, sharp intake of breath, he showed about as much expression as if Chris had told him it was beans and bacon for dinner. "Y' figure he's headed my way?" Vin asked, his voice a raspy whisper. He didn't look at Chris, but he rubbed the scars braceleting his wrists as if they suddenly ached. "Is he?" he repeated.

"I don't know. There's a posse out looking."

Vin tilted his head, squinted against the sun. "They won't find him." He looked up at Buck, held out his hand, and let the big man pull him to his feet. "But I will."

Buck gave a short laugh. "Son, have you lost your mind? You can't ride five miles outta town without faintin' at Chris's feet!" He laid his long arm across Vin's shoulder. "C'mon back t' town an' let the posse–"

Vin twisted out of Buck's hold leaving him clutching nothing but shirt. "Last I looked, I's a grown man and I ain't askin' permission, Bucklin. Y' got no right tellin' me what t' do." He jerked his shirt out of Buck's hands and thrust his arms through the sleeves, then rounded on Chris. "Y' ain't stoppin' me, Chris."

Chris rose lazily to his feet, leaned against the trunk of the cottonwood tree, his arms folded across his chest. He seemed to be studying the toes of his boots. "Didn't say I was. But I am goin' with you."

"Now, hold on a minute," Buck objected. "Ya can't go harin' after Darwell. Y' ain't got near 'nough water or food. Vin's lookin' like a good wind'd blow him away, and there ain't no way in hell I'm lettin' either of ya take on a snake like Darwell without some sorta back-up."

"Done it b'fore," Vin said.

"Sure, ya tracked him. But he also tracked you, pard, and left ya damn near dead."

"I didn't die," Vin said softly. "I got a right t' see justice done."

Buck set his hand on Vin's shoulder. "But ya don't hafta do it alone. Ya got friends watchin' your back now, remember?"

Vin's eyes widened and some color tinted his pale skin. "Reckon I ain't likely t' fergit," he whispered.

"And I don't just mean that gunslinger ya got standin' next to ya." Buck firmed up his grip and turned his attention to Chris. "I'm goin' with ya."

Vin felt Chris's hand on his other shoulder; the link between flesh, blood and mind strong and true. "Thanks, Buck. Means a lot t' me."

Buck's blue eyes met Chris's green ones and read gratitude in them, and a resolve that sent a cold shudder down his spine. Clyde Darwell was as good as dead in Larabee's mind, and Chris wasn't a man who let obstacles get in the way of what he wanted.

"Then we'd best head back t' town before that bastard gets any farther away."

Vin pulled on his boots and shrugged back into his coat. As he mounted Peso, he thought it wasn't the farther that had him worried. A sick fear was building in his stomach – fear he didn't want to acknowledge, much less allow anybody to see – he didn't know if this was a hunt for Clyde Darwell or for his own lost courage.


	2. Chapter 2

They rode back to Four Corners at an easy pace, knowing that they had to spare the horses if they were planning on riding hard tomorrow. At least that was the reasoning Buck put forth. Chris had other things on his mind – like giving Vin an opportunity to rest. He was staying in the saddle, but with a visible effort he was trying like hell to disguise with his customary easy slouch. Chris saw the ache of weary muscles and healing ribs, saw the way Vin's hands were tight on Peso's reins and the white knot of the muscles at the angle of his jaw. But he also knew there was no quit in the man and if he was set on tracking Darwell, he'd track him to the end of this mortal trail.

Chris would move heaven and earth to make sure the only one reaching the end of that trail was Darwell. Right now his primary goal was to get Vin back to Four Corners without carrying him there.

They rode into town in the late afternoon, Vin still upright, and Chris and Buck on either side of him to make sure he stayed that way. They dismounted, Chris staying close to shore Vin up if he faltered. He didn't, he just gave Chris a look that was half annoyed and half grateful. "I need a beer," he said.

"You need to rest," Chris growled.

"I will, soon's I have that beer." He tugged at Peso's reins. "Gotta take care 'a the horses."

Chris narrowed his eyes, but nodded. They led Pony and Peso to the livery, untacked them, rubbed them down, watered and fed them. By the time Vin was finished battling Peso he looked weary enough to curl up in the straw and sleep for the next year.

"You ready for that beer?" Chris asked, hoping Vin would acknowledge his weariness and refuse.

"You buyin'?"

Chris chuckled. "Yeah, I'm buyin'. One. And then you're gonna get that rest."

"Don't reckon I c'd handle more 'n one, anyways." Hell, he'd be lucky if he got through that one before he keeled over, but he wasn't about to admit that to Chris.

They made their way to the saloon, slowly. Vin wandered over to their customary table and sat down, sliding his aching spine into a comfortable curve. His scars burned from the pressure of the chair slats, bringing to the fore things he'd been pushing to the back of his mind. Why the hell couldn't he find some sort of peace? Someday, he'd ask Josiah and get an answer that made sense, but not tonight. He closed his eyes.

"You still with me, pard?"

At the thump of the glass mug hitting the table in front of him, Vin looked up. "Yeah. Jist…" He picked up the mug and took a deep swallow of the cool beer. "Tastes good. Thanks, Chris."

"Just what?"

Vin shook his head. "Nuthin' important." He drank more beer. Met Chris's gaze. "Leave at first light?"

Chris leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "You don't hafta do this, Vin."

Vin's fingers tightened around his beer glass until his knuckles showed white. If those words had come from anybody but Chris, they'd have been looking at the business end of his Bowie knife. "Like you didn't hafta go after Cletus Fowler?" he rasped.

Chris paled. "It ain't the same thing, Vin."

"The hell it ain't!" Vin leaned forward. "Maybe y' don't think what I got in my heart's worth as much as yer family, but it's all I got, Chris. M' name's gone, my freedom's only worth what folk's willin' t' pay to bring me in. All I got left is m' courage and Clyde Darwell took it when he hurt me. I cain't live like this, Chris. Lookin' over my shoulder, wonderin' what's behind the next rock, feelin' like if I turn around that whip is gonna cut int' me again and again. This afternoon I's one twitch 'a my finger away from killin' you and Buck. Only thing that kept me from firin' was thinkin' that I didn't wanta have innocent blood on m' hands." He held Chris pinned with his gaze, unrelenting, with every hurt visible in their blue depths. "I gotta do this, Chris. I gotta git back what Darwell took. Y' understand?"

Chris understood, and hated that he did. Nobody should lose as much as Vin had, or suffer the way he had at the hands of another man. He held his hand out to Vin, and they clasped each other's forearms. "I understand," he said. "We'll ride at first light." He released Vin and appraised him from beneath the flat brim of his hat. "Get some rest. I ain't draggin' your skinny ass back into town until we get Darwell."

Vin nodded once, rose and tipped his hat in a salute. "See y' in the mornin'."

"I'll be waitin'."

Vin gave a soft snort of laughter. Larabee knew he'd be up before the east even showed light. He went to his wagon and settled in on his bed of skins and blankets. The night was cool after the blazing afternoon. He stripped off his hide coat, took off his boots and burrowed into the blankets. He'd promised he'd rest; hadn't said anything about sleep. He had a feeling sleep wouldn't be in his future until Clyde Darwell was cold in the ground.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

He slept, not long and not well, waking to pale moonlight – the last spill before the sun rose and dimmed it. He emerged from his covers, shoved them aside and got up, tired and aching, with a headache that demanded coffee. He pulled on a clean shirt, his boots, grabbed his hat and set off to find it.

He could smell the cookfires at the boarding house and knew Mrs. Collins was up and cooking for the town's early risers. He wasn't a regular, but Chris was, and he knew Mrs. Collins, like most women in this town, seemed to feel a need to fatten him up. He paid her a dollar a week and she'd serve him coffee and a good breakfast whether or not he slept under her roof.

He sat at the long table and took off his hat, checked his hands to be sure they were clean enough for polite company. A minute later he heard a familiar tread on the steps. Chris's eyes widened when he saw Vin sitting there. "Thought you'd be at the stable."

Vin shrugged. "I'm hungry. Didn't feel like ridin' out on an empty stomach."

Mrs. Collins bustled out of the kitchen, coffeepot in her hand. "Mornin', gentlemen. I take it you're lookin' for some breakfast?"

Vin nodded. "Whatever ya got."

"Well, I got grits, eggs, ham steak and potatoes."

"Ya got biscuits?" Vin asked shyly.

"Mr. Tanner, I do indeed have biscuits with homemade strawberry preserves I put up in the spring, or wild honey and butter." She twinkled at him. "And I'll bet you got room in that hollow leg of yours for both."

"I reckon I might squeeze some in." He grinned up at her. "Thank you, ma'am."

Chris just sat back and enjoyed the show. Damn, and Buck thought he had "animal maggotism" as JD was so fond of reminding him. Seemed like those blue eyes and blushes of Vin worked as effectively as any of Wilmington's palaver. And Vin wasn't even trying, which made it all even more amusing.

Normally that amused smirk on his face would have brought a smart-aleck reply from Tanner, but as soon as Mrs. Collins had retreated to the kitchen the smile on Vin's face faded and once again he looked weary and tense, his normally still fingers beating restlessly on the tabletop. He caught Chris looking at his hands, then stopped. His eyes went to the window and the pre-dawn light. He shifted in his seat, looked like he was ready to take off.

"Still too early to see anything, Vin," Chris reminded him gently.

"Y' think I cain't track in the dark?" Vin asked.

"Can you?"

Vin shook his head. "Funny thing about trackin'. I c'n do it at night in the full moon, but this time 'a day, when ever'thin's kinda the same color… cain't do it, not even th' Comanche who taught me could do it."  
"Then we've got time to eat."

Mrs. Collins emerged just then with their full plates. She set them down with a smile. "You boys ridin' out?" she asked.

Chris nodded, his mouth already full of ham.

"Then you'd better eat hearty, 'specially you, Mr. Tanner. I swear you look like a good wind would knock you over if you weren't weighted down."

Vin just blushed and tucked into his food while she stood watching for a moment, checking that her efforts were satisfactory before she refilled their coffee mugs and returned to the kitchen.

Vin ate so quickly and methodically that Chris wondered if he even tasted the food, but at least he was eating. They didn't have time to savor every bite and both finished their meals quickly. Vin took his last swallow of coffee standing, and then they were both out the door and striding quickly towards the livery. The first pink blush of dawn was painting the horizon as they reached the corral to find Buck already waiting for them. He looked irritatingly bright-eyed and rested, reminding Chris of the times during the war when Buck would lie down, even in the most dire circumstances, and sleep while he remained tense and wakeful, nerves twitching with anticipation of the next move, the next day, the next battle.

Buck leaned against the rails, his big gray mare standing patiently at his side. "Mornin' Chris, Vin." He tipped his hat. "You boys get some rest?"

Chris gave him a sour look while Vin just shrugged. Buck shook his head, but didn't say a word. He gave Chris a sidelong look as if asking if Vin were up to this challenge. Chris held back until Vin was in the stable. "What?" he asked Buck.

"Can he do this, Chris?"

"You ever know Vin to give up on an idea once he sets his mind to it?"

"This ain't an idea, Chris. Hasn't been all that long since he nearly died–"

"He didn't die." Chris's eyes had taken on that flat, dangerous light that meant Buck was treading on some pretty sensitive territory.

Buck didn't back down. "You know what that kinda fight can cost a man. Hell, sometimes livin' is harder than dyin', and that boy's been closer to death more 'n' you and me put together."

Unwilling to acknowledge the truth Buck had hit on, Chris turned on his heel and headed into the stable to saddle Pony. The mare nuzzled Buck's shoulder and he rubbed a big hand over her nose. "Ya know, sometimes it's damn hard bein' a good friend," he sighed.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They rode first to Eagle Bend, Chris deciding that a talk with the sheriff wouldn't be a bad idea, Vin accepting that only because it was the logical place to start tracking Darwell. He wouldn't admit to a faint hope that the posse had succeeded and the man was already back behind bars. He didn't have much faith in Rufus Stains, the law in Eagle Bend, but then he didn't have much faith in any lawman.

They halted outside of the town near a stream where they could water the horses. Vin pushed his hat back and knelt to splash water on his face. "You all right?" Chris asked.

Vin cast him an annoyed look over his shoulder. "I'll let y' know if I ain't," he grumbled. He stood, stretched out his back, "But I'm thinkin' I'll jist set a bit out here and let you boys handle Stains. Don't trust that man not to have a mind t' bringin' me in."

Chris nodded. "I don't figure it'll take long. Either they found Darwell, or they haven't. You ridin' with me, Buck?" His eyes said, Don't.

"Ya know, I think I'll jist stretch out here fer a bit, give th' horses a chance to rest up. I got a feelin' we're gonna be ridin' again, and not back home." He dropped to the ground and lay back with his arms beneath his head. "Jist make enough noise when ya ride back in so me and Vin don't put two bullets through ya."

"Thanks, pard." Chris's lips quirked in a wry smile. He mounted up and rode toward Eagle Bend, hoping that Vin would follow Buck's example and rest up.

Eagle Bend was a virtual twin to Four Corners: small, dusty, hot, half-dangerous, half-civilized. Stains was a good enough lawman, but not a man Chris particularly trusted or liked. Their paths crossed frequently and they tended to circle each other like wary prizefighters, each gauging the strengths and weaknesses of the other. So far, Stains had been smart enough not to test Chris to the limits of patience and common sense.

The jail was manned by a deputy about JD's age. He was sitting at the desk, his legs up. He got upright real fast when Chris entered, stammered out a greeting. It wasn't everyday that a living legend walked into a room, even if that legend was a gunslinger in the guise of a lawman. "H-how… I mean… C'n I help you?"

Chris loomed over the desk, using his formidable presence to intimidate. "Sheriff Stains around?"

"S-saloon?"

"You askin' or tellin'?" Chris drawled.

"He's at the saloon," the young man managed to say a bit more confidently. "Just got back a while ago from chasin' an escapee."

"He catch him?"

"No. Figured the bastard headed into Mexico."

Chris left the jail without another word. He found the trail-weary Rufus Stains wolfing down a plate of beans and fatback bacon. He hooked a chair over and sat, giving the sheriff a few minutes to finish his meal.

Stains cleaned his plate up with a piece of cornbread and wiped his mouth. "What brings you to town, Larabee? Got no faith in my posse?"

Chris cocked his head. "Heard you called 'em off."

"Ain't no reason to pursue Darwell across the border. Easier on horses and men."

"You sure he's in Mexico?"

"There's no reason to believe he ain't."

"Then I reckon you won't mind my makin' sure of it."

Stain's eyes narrowed. "You got a personal stake in findin' Darwell?"

Chris leaned forward. "You know what he did."

Stains scrubbed a hand across his face. "He's a sick sonovabitch and I don't care if ya bring him in alive or dead or leave him to rot in the sun. But I can't ask my men t' leave their homes and families t' chase down a bounty headed outta the country." He paused, thought. "We picked up his trail near that creek northeast of town… should be pretty easy to follow from there to where I turned the posse around."

Chris nodded. "Thanks." He pushed away from the table, tipped his hat to Stains and received a nod in return. A tentative truce on this day, at least. And a break since Vin and Buck were already at the creek.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck looked like he was sleeping, lying there long and relaxed, his hat tilted over his eyes, but Vin wouldn't have taken any bets on it. He sat up, unable to relax and watched the slow eddies in the water as the stream pooled and flowed in its bed, tumbling over stones that had once been as sharp as those on the bank, but were now worn smooth. There were times his heart felt like those stones – all jagged and broke – and he so wanted not to feel that way. Sometimes, sitting with Chris and the others, he felt their voices and laughter were wearing away all the pain and loneliness like that water was wearing down the rough stones.

And then Clyde Darwell had torn him all up, flesh and spirit. Vin laid his head on his arms with a soft, nearly inaudible sigh.

Buck heard that despairing exhalation and it pierced through him. He cautiously raised the brim of his hat and saw the defeated bow of Vin's shoulders. His first impulse was to offer comfort, his second was to stay where he was, knowing that no matter how much Vin was hurting – and that boy was hurting plenty right now – there were times when a man had to bear his burdens alone. He'd learned that lesson at Chris's hands… painfully. Lord only knew what Vin's years with the Indians had taught him about ways to hurt a man. 

Buck yawned hugely and stretched, slowly sitting up. "Chris oughtta be ridin' in real soon." 

Vin, his back still turned, nodded. "Reckon so."

He couldn't restrain himself. He set a hand on Vin's shoulder. "You get some rest?"

"'Bout as much as you did."

Buck winced. "Good." He sat down beside Vin and cast a look at that impassive profile. "You given any thought t' what you're gonna do when we find Darwell?"

"Ain't thought about much else," Vin admitted. He wrapped his arms around himself.

"If ya had him in front of ya, nobody else around–"

Vin rounded on him, a fierce, hot light in his eyes. His knife was in his hand before Buck could blink. "What d' ya want me t' say? That I'd take this knife an' skin him alive? Cut out his tongue, put out his eyes? Maybe slice off his privates an' watch 'im bleed t' death real slow?"

Vin's breath came hard, shivering through his thin frame, but the knife remained lethally steady, the edge of it not an inch from Buck's throat. Buck swallowed, his Adam's apple rising and falling. "Vin?" he whispered.

He dropped the knife as if it burned his hand and turned away, hiding his face from Buck. "Don't know what I'd do," he murmured. "Sorry, Bucklin."

Buck picked up the Bowie and held it out, haft first. "I reckon ya got a right t'do whatever comes t'mind when ya find him. But I ain't so sure I wanta be around when ya do it."

Vin looked at Buck, hurt glittering in his fathomless blue eyes. "I ain't a savage. Warn't raised that way by my ma and grandpaw. But I seen them things done and I kilt a few men with that there knife, gutted 'em real good ... Ya might say that makes me no better 'n Darwell."

Buck took Vin's arms in his hands. "Hell, ya think me an' Chris 'r any kind a' angels? Son, you ain't heard half a' what we done. And I reckon after what Darwell done t'ya, he'd better pray that ya find him b'fore we do. Y'ain't ridin' alone no more, Vin." He felt the tension leave Vin's body and released him. "I got some biscuits in my saddlebag that might not be too broken up. Ya want some?"

He didn't, but he nodded, still shaken by his reaction to Buck's questions. First his gun, now his knife. Maybe he'd be better off if he surrendered all his weapons before he killed his friends instead of his enemies. He took the slightly broken biscuit from Buck and washed it down with water. Then he did lay back down and this time, he actually dozed off, aware of Buck's comforting presence near by.


	3. Chapter 3

Chris rode in, calling out as he did so he wouldn't find himself facing two very lethal gunmen. Buck was on his feet, his hand just resting on his gun. Vin was sitting, the Mare's Leg balanced across his forearm. Both men relaxed visibly when Chris dismounted.

"They catch him?" Buck asked.

Chris shook his head. "No. Stains is convinced Darwell's in Mexico. He called off the posse." What hope Chris thought he saw in Vin's eyes died quickly at that information. "He said they picked up the trail right around here. Should be pretty easy to follow."

"He ain't headed t' Mexico," Vin said.

"And you know that, how?" Buck raised a skeptical brow. "Y' ain't even looked at the trail."  
"Man escapes from jail – maybe has a gun, but not much ammunition. Ain't got provisions but what he can steal on the way – and there ain't much t' steal 'round here. Ain't got money." He met Buck's amusement calmly. "He ain't headed t' Mexico," he repeated. "That trail might lead south, but I'll lay y' odds he's making a run to Purgatorio first."

"Figures that rattlesnake would find a hole." Buck grimaced.

"He ain't hidin' anyplace where I won't follow." Vin unfolded his body, trying not to look like it was an effort. He stretched out his back and lifted Peso's reins from the branch where he had tethered the gelding. "Let's fnd that trail."

Chris set his hand on Vin's arm. "You sure you want to do this?"

Vin just gave him a wry, one-sided smile. "Hell, no, I don't want t' do this. But I hafta do it and y' ain't likely t' change my mind, so if yer ridin' with me, mount up."

Chris grinned, gave Buck one of his "what the hell?" shrugs, and mounted Pony. "You comin'?" he asked.

"I never met a man so set on meetin' the devil," Buck muttered as he swung into the saddle. He'd followed Chris into hell more times than he could count and he just chalked this up as another way to cheat the devil of his due.

Vin picked up the trail a short time later. True to Stains' word, it was easy enough to follow to the border town of Purgatorio – halfway to hell. No wonder the posse had declined to pursue Darwell. There wasn't a law-abiding citizen in the west who'd willingly enter that town. But then, Buck reasoned, they weren't exactly law-abiding men themselves.

The three men reined in on the rise overlooking Purgatorio. They'd been there before, nearly been killed there before, too. Buck had been real glad to shake the dust of that place off his boots, and here he was again. Even the whores in Purgatorio were dangerous; as likely to knife or rob a man as lay him. The thought gave Buck no joy.

He rested his arms on his saddle horn and looked at Vin. Tanner was sitting as upright as he ever got in the saddle, leaning slightly forward as if in anticipation. But there was no eagerness in his expression, just a sadness, almost a yearning that Buck couldn't decipher. He turned to Chris and saw that he, too, was watching Vin. Those two souls shared a communion Buck couldn't fathom; had suffered losses beyond any he had endured. It showed in the comprehension darkening Chris's eyes.

"You plannin' on ridin' down there in broad daylight?" Chris asked Vin.

Vin nodded.

"What if Stains is right?" Buck asked. "Ya could be chasin' him for a long time down in Mexico."

"Buck's right. He might've crossed the border already," Chris suggested.

Vin shook his head stubbornly. "Nah. He's still there… Y' don't know him like I do. Most fellers break outta jail 'cause they're afraid t' die. Clyde… he ain't afraid t' die. But he don't want me t' live on past him. He took a blood oath on me, Chris. Swore t' see me in my grave."

Vin fell silent, hid behind the shadowy brim of his hat.

"I won't let that happen," Chris said, low and fierce.

"We won't let that happen," Buck swore.

Vin let out a breath. "I 'preciate it, but in the long run, it's between me 'n' Clyde. What he took from me ain't somethin' y' c'n get back. It ain't like my coat 'r my harmonica." He made a soft, dismissive tcha in his throat and shook his head as if clearing it of such fancies. His head came up. "I'm gonna talk t' Jake Esteban." He pulled Peso away from the tuft of grass he had been grazing. "Be back b'fore nightfall."

"Vin–"

"I'm goin' alone."

Something in his tone made Chris back off. He didn't like it, but there were things a man needed to do on his own and he respected Vin's skills enough to trust him to know when he needed help. "Be back," he said.

Vin's teeth glinted. He turned Peso and took off toward Purgatorio.

Buck stared at Chris. "You gonna let him get away with that shit?"

"Hell, no, but I reckon we have to give him a head start."

Buck laughed. Just tipped back his head and let out that wide, deep laugh like a mountain stream on a hot day. He clapped Chris on the back. "You do take all, ol' son!"

Chris gave Buck a glare and snatched up Pony's reins. "You coming with me or just standing there grinning like a damn fool?" He mounted and headed Pony towards the town, leaving Buck to follow his trail of dust.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

There were more back ways in and out of Purgatorio than there were straightforward ones, and Vin had his own particular favorites. He edged Peso down an alley so narrow that his knees brushed the adobe walls on either side of him. Peso picked his way through the rubble and trash littering the passage until Vin reined him in near a tiny, dark doorway. He dismounted as cautiously and silently as he could, taking a good look around. The alley was deserted, didn't look like one of the more traveled ways in or out of town.

He rubbed Peso's velvety nose and pulled out a crumbled bit of molasses cookie for the gelding.

"Don't know why I'm givin' y' treats when y' ain't done nuthin' but b'have. But I reckon that's reason 'nough." He scratched the blazed face with his knuckles. "Keep b'havin' an' there's a bit more where that come from."

The door was locked, but Vin sprung the bolt with the blade of his knife, eased the door open and slipped inside. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A short flight of crumbling adobe steps led to a dim hall. Light and sound came from the right – voices, the clatter of tin plates – cooking odors that told him the cantina and kitchen lay that way.

Vin headed silently in the opposite direction. A wooden staircase ascended to the second floor and the private rooms. The boards were cracked and worn, but surprisingly silent; or maybe not so surprising considering what went on in those rooms. The door closest to the stairwell was scarred from the fists, gun butts and knife hafts that had knocked on it over the years.

Vin didn't knock, but he did clear his knife from the leather scabbard. He tested the lock, slid the blade between the door and the frame, and lifted the latch until it disengaged. The room was dark and shuttered, hot as an oven, and vacant. Vin shut the door and locked it, then cracked the shutters to let in a sliver of light and a breath of air. The bed was unmade, the blankets tumbled. The flat pillow still held the indentation of the sleeper's head. One indentation. It seemed Jake was still sleeping alone.

A half empty bottle of tequila and a glass were on the floor next to the bed. Vin picked up the bottle and sniffed. He smiled. Jake was still keepin' the good stuff for himself; no matter how low he was at least he hadn't sunk to drinking the rot-gut liquor they sold downstairs. He took a swig to cut the dust and dryness in his throat, then moved the single chair to the corner of the room farthest from the light and settled in to wait.

He heard the heavy, measured tread of a big man bearing weariness like a burden approach and knew it was Jake Esteban, even though Esteban had not always walked like that… like a man heading for the gallows.

The door opened, light leaking into the room, but not falling on Vin. Jake's familiar bulk filled the doorway briefly before he closed the door on darkness. He sank down on the edge of the bed and slid his suspenders down his beefy shoulders.

"Yer gettin' mighty careless there, Jake – not checkin' th' corners of a room. Man might think y' was lookin' fer an early grave."

Esteban's shoulders jerked at the sound of his voice and then eased back with recognition. "And you señor, not to expect that man to be armed." With deceptive grace, Jake flicked his arm, sending a knife thudding into the wall scant inches from Vin's neck.

Vin waited until the vibrating thrum stopped, then leaned back and pulled the knife free. "Y' still got a pretty good throwin' arm."

"And you are still a lock-picking, tequila-stealing gringo, amigo." Jake struck a lucifer and lit the candle on the bedside table. "Vin Tanner."

Vin stood up and Jake waited for him to cross the floor. "'S good t' see ya." He held out his hand.

Esteban ignored the gesture and enveloped Vin in a warm hug, then stepped back quickly, his hands still on Vin's shoulders. "You been in prison?"

"Naw! Been on th' other side a' the bars, Jake. Got m'self a job bein' a peacekeeper up in Four Corners."

"They don't feed you?" Jake asked.

Vin's blush showed even in the dim candlelight. "Hell, Jake. Sure they do!"

"It does not look like it, amigo."

Vin shook his head, dismissing the concern. "I didn't use the back stairs jist t' have a friendly visit, Jake. Got a favor t' ask."

Esteban sank back down on the bed. "A favor? An easy one, or the kind that c'n get a man killed?

Vin gave him a wry smile and dragged the chair closer. "Reckon the kind that c'n get a man kilt."

"Bueno. The other kind ain't worth th' trouble." He grinned and clapped Vin on the shoulder. "Que pasa, amigo?"

Vin handed the bottle of tequila to Jake. "'Member the Darwells? Clyde and Caleb?"

Jake's expression darkened. "T' bastards who killed the O'Brians?"

"Yeah." Vin swallowed and took back the tequila from Jake. He drank again, put the bottle down.

"Thought you chased 'em down?"

"I did. Caleb died in prison. Some judge sprung Clyde."

"Hijo, I hate to tell you this, but you cannot bring in a man freed by a judge. Even I, Tejano that I am, know that."

"I got a right t' go after him." 

Jake raised a brow. "Thought you were outta th' bounty business?"

"I ain't doin' it fer the bounty." His voice was soft as it ever was, but still betrayed his emotions. He looked away from Jake, waited for his heart to settle. "Y' seen him around here?"

Jake's dark eyes narrowed. "What did he do, Vincente?"

Vin closed his eyes. He'd already been emotionally stripped by Jake; to reveal his physical shame was almost more than he could bear, but he owed that much to friendship. He slipped out of his coat and suspenders, pulled up his shirt and turned his back to Esteban. 

"Madre de Dios…" Jake's voice shook and Vin felt the light, cool touch of his fingers tracing along the scars left by Darwell's whip. Vin's muscles quivered and he moved away, tugged his shirt down.

"When you find him, you will kill him?" Jake asked.

Vin appreciated the assumption that he would find Darwell. "If I hafta, I will."

"Didn't used t' be a 'hafta,' amigo." Jake raised a dark brow, inquiring without words what had changed in Vin's life.

"I ain't ridin' alone, Jake. I got friends with me."

Jake looked into his deep blue eyes, those eyes that had betrayed him as white the first time Jake had met him – a boy of thirteen, wild as the group of young Comanche bucks he was running with. They'd come to the trading post, not causing any real trouble, but into everything – all but Vin. Jake had found him standing by a bolt of cloth, just fingering it. When he knew he was being watched, he stepped away like the cloth had burned his fingers. And then Jake had seen his eyes. Blue eyes filled with pain in a thin, brown face that wasn't Indian.

He saw the same pain now, but fleeting and eased by the acknowledgement of friendship. "Good."

"Yeah, I reckon they are." He drew a deep breath. "So, y' seen Darwell?"

"No, but that does not mean he is not in Purgatorio. Can you give me a few hours?"

Vin nodded. "Jist make sure Darwell don't find out. I'll be back 'round sundown."

"It's good to see you, Vincente." Jake rose and put his hands gently on Vin's shoulders. "I am sorry about Darwell – what he did to you."

Vin looked away, blinked. "Jist scars, Jake. Ain't like I don't have others."

"Hijo, scars are on the outside, but the hurts are on the inside, or so Perdita used to say."

Vin sighed. "What happened to her, Jake?"

The big man shrugged. "She left."

Vin turned away. Behind him, he felt Jake's sad eyes watching him. He was wrong, some wounds didn't heal enough to leave scars, they just bled and bled until there was nothing left inside but pain.

Peso was waiting, tethered where Vin had left him. Vin gave him the other half of the molasses cookie and mounted up. The shadows were growing long and they passed out of the alley unnoticed. Vin took the back way out of town and was riding north when he heard horses behind him. He pulled the Mare's Leg free and wheeled Peso around, the gun leveled and then dropping a moment later when he recognized Chris and Buck. He rode off the trail towards a stand of boulders and waited for them to catch up.


	4. Chapter 4

Chris eyed his surroundings; Purgatorio in all its tawdry, dangerous existence. Men who looked like they would rather shoot than breathe. Whores who had been used up young and were now as worn and ugly as the town they inhabited. Drunks who didn't give a shit about anything but the raw tequila in their bottles and oblivion.

Chris had been there, dangerous, drunk, fucking the worn-out whores – seemed a long time ago. Seemed no matter what road he looked down, past or future, that part of his life was father and farther away. He turned to Buck. "So… what do we do now?"

Buck leaned back in his saddle and looked around. "Saloon's always a good bet."

Chris grinned. "For what?" But he kneed Pony forward. As he rode, he kept an open eye for any sign of Vin or Peso. Those two were hard to camouflage for any length of time. But nothing caught his attention, and he marveled at Tanner's knowledge of the back alleys of the town, places that made Chris shudder. He reined in and dismounted, surveying the territory and claiming his right to be there.

Buck was a dangerous man in his own right; knew that he was big enough to intimidate most folks who might think about causing him trouble, but he'd never seen anybody have the effect on a crowd that Chris did when he came into a town. Sure, he could slip in unnoticed, but when he wanted to be noticed, there wasn't anybody who didn't. He saw it now, saw the folks on the street kind of slink away, saw hands drop from guns, like they knew Chris was faster on the draw than they were. He heard silence, then whispers, and then silence again as they entered the saloon.

Chris went up to the bar, and a glass and a bottle of whiskey appeared without him asking. Buck settled next to him, leaned there with one hand poised near his gun. The barkeeper put another glass down and retreated. Chris splashed whiskey into their glasses and set a coin on the bar. Behind them, conversation started up in whispers and then slowly grew to its previous level.

Chris drank down his whiskey, gave the barkeep a look. "Habla Ingles?" he asked. Buck grinned. He'd better, 'cause that was about the extent of Larabee's Spanish.

The man nodded. "Si, señor."

"Bueno." Chris figured he'd better keep it simple. "I'm lookin' for a man, might be new in town. 'Bout the same height as mi amigo–" He nodded at Buck. "Black hair like an Indian, pitted skin on his cheeks, scar running from here to here…" He circumscribed a curve from below his left ear to the notch at his throat.

The bartender's eyes took on a shuttered look. "And if I had seen such a man, what would it mean to you?"

Buck gave him a mirthless smile. "Might mean that Chris Larabee won't shoot a hole in your heart."

The man's Adam's apple worked in his throat and he looked away from Chris's penetrating gaze. "He was in here yesterday. Took off with a whore named Alma. I have not seen him today. Perhaps he is still there, perhaps not."

"Where can I pay a call on Senorita Alma?" Buck asked.

"Across the street. Tell the old dragon at the front door Guillermo told you about Alma."  
"You see Alma t'day?"

Guillermo showed his teeth. "She is a puta, señor. Do whores come out at dawn?"  
Chris turned away without saying a word and strode toward the door.

"Gracias." Buck laid another coin on the bar and followed him. Once outside, he caught Chris's elbow. "Why don't you let me handle Alma?" he asked.

Chris gave him a wry look. "Maybe 'cause you'd handle her?"

Buck laughed. "Now, you know I don't hafta pay for a lady's affections. But I gotta tell ya, partner, you've got a way of scarin' folks, and knowin' the fair sex like I do, a lady who's scared ain't gonna tell ya much of anything."

"We don't have much time, Buck," Chris reminded him quietly.

"I know."

"And the whores in this town ain't exactly known for the goodness of their hearts and their willingness to talk."

"Fine, back me up. But let me do the talkin', all right?"

Chris sighed, nodded. They crossed the street and Buck spoke in his halting Spanish to the fierce old lady guarding the door, his hat held over his heart. Chris hid his smile behind his hand.

"Muchas gracias, senora." Buck dug into his pockets and cast Chris a look. Chris pulled out a coin and dropped it in the old lady's apron. She gave him a toothless grimace of approval and together they went up the stairs.

The place smelled of old liquor, sweat and body fluids. Chris wrinkled his nose, then paused for a moment. He touched Buck's arm. "You smell something?" he asked.

"I smell a whole buncha stuff I don't rightly want t' think about," Buck whispered.

"Which room?" Chris asked. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and every sense was telling him that death was near.

"End of the hall."

There were no sounds from beyond that door. No locks. Buck shoved, the door opened, and the smell of death eddied out. "Shit!" He pulled his bandana over his nose and mouth. Chris had smelled worse. He went inside, nearly silent even in his boots and opened the shuttered window letting in air and light. Buck made a sound in his throat like he was suppressing a gag and Chris turned away from the window, bracing himself for what he would see.

The whore, Alma, naked, sprawled face-down on the bed. A wild tangle of black hair spread across her back and shoulders. Below, her back was a mass of bruises and welts. Her legs were shoved wide and there was blood between her buttocks, the flesh bearing the marks of the rough fingers that had opened them for penetration.

Chris laid his hand on her neck. Her flesh was cool, but the heat in the room had held rigor at bay. He turned her and cursed. Her throat had been cut and her head lolled obscenely on her nearly severed neck. She had been young, not pretty – her features were too coarse for that – but not ruined by drink and hard living as yet.

"Go get the madam," Chris said harshly. "Bring her up here. Don't tell her why."

Buck was glad to escape the sight and smell of Alma's death. A sick rage was filling his heart; he had no doubt who was responsible for the murder, and to see a woman – any woman – so ill-used and cast aside like garbage struck to the center of his being. His own mother could have ended her life like Alma if the owner of the brothel where she'd worked the trade hadn't thought of his ladies as valuable commodities. Alma didn't stand a chance in Purgatorio.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his feelings had hardened and he seized the old crone by her shoulder. She yelped a bit, but he raised her from her chair. "Bruja, when was the last time you saw that girl?" he asked.

"Is she gone? Useless, thieving whore!" She shook off Buck's hand and gabbling like the witch he had called her, she took off up the stairs at a pace that caught him off-guard.

"Chris!" he called up the stairs to warn him and, too late, heard the old woman's shriek of horror as she came upon the scene and took the stairs two at a time. The madam's hand was pressed to her mouth, her face looked greenish-white in the fading light.

"Ay, de Dios!" she wept. "Ay, de Dios. Un diablo, un Diablo!" she wailed. "Pobrecita!" She knelt by the body and covered her face with her apron. Buck looked down at his boots. Two minutes ago Alma had been a worthless whore. Now she was a poor little thing.

"We don't have time for this!" Chris growled. "Senora!" he commanded and pulled the apron away from her face. "Who was her last man?"

"No se, no se…"

"I think you do. A big man, black hair, scars on his face, and aqui–" Once again that sketch of a garrote with his fingers.

The old woman nodded. "Si, si. Un cicatriz a su cuellar."

"Yeah." Chris patted her shoulder once. "Lo siento." He stood. "C'mon, Buck, we got a killer out there, and Vin waitin' on us."

Buck nodded. "I reckon there ain't much we can do here."

"Nobody but the undertaker gives a damn."

Before they left, the old woman grabbed Buck's arm. "Senor! Encuentrelo, por favor. Encuentrelo!"

"What's she saying?" Chris asked.

"She wants us to find him," Buck said. He looked down at the old woman. "Lo encontraremos, senora. We will find him."

Chris nodded and headed out the door with Buck close at his heels. There was nothing else they could do for Alma, or Vin, in Purgatorio.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin dismounted and lifted his canteen from Peso's saddle. He drank deeply and waited for Chris and Buck to ride in. They hadn't been far behind him and riding fast. He half hoped there was some reason other than news of Darwell for their haste. He sank down on the ground. Lord, but he was tired. He should of killed Darwell back in Texas. Should of put bullets through his and Caleb's heads and saved the state the trouble of feeding them. Saved himself the pain Darwell had inflicted on him. But he'd been determined to bring them in alive, and he had, even if he'd come within an inch of slitting Clyde's throat from ear to ear. He'd left his mark so Darwell would think twice before he hurt somebody else. Hadn't worked out that way. Least Caleb was dead. Vin sighed. His spirit hurt nearly as much as his body. He wondered if death and despair were dogging his tracks through life. His ma and grandpa, the things he'd done in the war, the end of the buffalo, the world of the Indians which he had valued above the world he was born to, Jake… the bounty on his head. Was like to make him tired enough to lie down and sigh his life away.

For a moment his shoulders slumped and his head dropped low. Then a self-deprecatory chuckle escaped his lips at his indulgent self-pity. Hell, his ma and grandpa hadn't raised him up to be whining and griping about his lot. Reckon they would be right ashamed of him sitting here all Friday-faced. He sat back against a rock, his Mare's Leg balanced across his knees, and waited for Chris and Buck to ride in.

He didn't move, not even when Buck touched his shoulder lightly as he sat beside him, until he felt Chris studying him. He tilted his head up. "Y'all were ridin' mighty hard back there."

"Darwell killed a whore in Purgatorio," Chris said. "Raped her, beat her, slit her throat."

"He ain't there no more," Vin said softly. "We gotta start trackin' him."

"He could've taken off to Mexico," Buck suggested.

Vin shook his head. "He's got a taste fer killin'. Got a feelin' he's gonna kill again real soon. I seen it in Caleb. Y' think Clyde's bad as they git? Y' oughtta be real glad Caleb's dead – he was a fuckin' monster."

"I wish I'd beat him t' death with his own whip back in Blue Springs," Chris said.

"Would 'a been simpler," Vin agreed. "But y' didn't." He drew a random design in the dust. "Too late t' start out t'night. Reckon the horses c'd use the rest." He held out his hand and let Chris pull him to his feet. "I'm goin' huntin' fer somethin' t' eat."

Chris gave Buck a look. He got up from his crouch. "Hold on there, Vin. Mind if I tag along?"

He shrugged. "Suit yerself, Bucklin. Seems y'all do what y' want, anyways." He had seen the look that had passed between his friends and was half irritated by their watchfulness, but comforted by their concern. He took the Winchester from his saddle and vanished into the growing dusk.

Chris gathered fuel for a small fire; wasn't much else to do. They'd have to find someplace to buy supplies if they were going to be out for more than another day. Either that or return to Four Corners, and he had a feeling Vin wouldn't be looking to do that until Darwell was dead.

Chris wasn't going to waste any time carting Darwell back to Eagle Bend. As far as he was concerned, Darwell had forfeited his right to life when he had nearly beaten Vin to death. This time, he wasn't going to let anybody stop him from seeing final justice meted out.

He heard the sharp crack of Vin's rifle, quickly followed by a second report. Sounded like dinner was on the way. A few minutes later, Buck and Vin returned, Buck carrying two rabbits. Vin took the game from him and sat down to skin and dress them.

"You sure he can't see in the dark?" Buck asked Chris. "He picked them rabbits out easy enough."

Chris smiled. "You complainin'?"

"Hell, no, but I'll tell ya, partner, he's damn spooky sometimes."

Chris watched Vin expertly and efficiently skin and gut the game. Buck set up a spit over the fire and soon the aroma of roasting meat filled the air. Vin scooped the entrails into the skins and carried them a fair distance from the camp, figuring the scavengers would take care of the remains. When he returned, he washed his hands with sand and water to clean the blood off and settled in to wait for the rabbits to cook.

The three men shared out the meat and hardtack, didn't say much while they ate. When they had disposed of the bones, they settled in around the fire. Buck sat back with his hat tilted over his eyes and was soon snoring softly. Chris lit a cheroot and stretched out with a weary sigh. He turned slightly toward Vin, who was sitting cross-legged, seemingly staring at nothing in particular in the fire. The flickering light threw his sharp features into relief – cheekbones and straight nose, shadowed eyes.

Chris drew in smoke, released it and watched it coil around in the still air. "Could be a long hunt," he said.

"Seems like it's already been that."

Tanner sounded exhausted and Chris didn't like that. "We can talk in the morning. I'm so tired I can't see straight. And you ain't lookin' much better than I feel."

Vin smiled slightly. "I reckon I'll sleep." He opened his bedroll and covered up.

Chris smoked his cheroot down to the nub, then pitched the butt into the fire. He settled in his own blankets. His last thought was an awareness that Vin, though still and quiet, was not sleeping despite what he had said.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

He must have drifted off some time before dawn, not much before, because he remembered seeing the eastern sky grow pale and gray. He had turned his head and had seen Chris watching him, green eyes enigmatic in the glow from the embers. Somehow the knowledge he was being guarded allowed him to surrender his overwrought body to sleep.

When he opened his eyes, the blue shadows were receding and the landscape was beginning to show definition. Buck had stirred the fire to life and had brewed up coffee – not much, but enough to put some heat into their bellies and wake them up. They crouched around the fire, dipping hardtack biscuits into the coffee. Buck spoke first.

"You got a plan, Vin?" he asked.

One nod. "Best place t' start is back at Purgatorio. I need t' see Jake."

"Ya already know what Darwell did there," Buck argued. "And he ain't gittin' any closer."

Vin slanted a look in Buck's direction. "When y' hunt, y' gotta know the ways a' yer quarry. Habits. What they eat, ways they got a' defendin' themselves. What y' don't know c'n kill ya," he said softly. "I ain't aimin' on bein' the one t' die. An' I ain't never bein' caught off my guard again."

Chris shivered at the grim determination he heard in Vin's voice. He was a man of considerable will himself, but that paled in comparison to Tanner's obdurate will – quiet, but as cold and unyielding as granite.

He knew Vin was waiting for him to say something, knew Buck was watching him for the same reason. "Vin's right," he sighed. "But this time we ride in together. Agreed?"

Buck looked like he didn't much like the idea, but he agreed with a nod.

"Thanks, Chris." Vin stood and stretched. "We'd best get movin'. Buck's right 'bout Darwell not gittin' any closer."

They shut down the camp and took off toward Purgatorio as the sun rose over the horizon.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dawn was about the only time in Purgatorio that Vin felt safe riding in without taking his back routes. The only folks stirring were a few whores drifting off to their beds, exhausted and hung over men – some collapsed on the street and nearly as unmoving as the corpses the undertaker was about to drag off to their pine coffins. Not too many of those – must've been a quiet night – though in one of those boxes was the body of the murdered prostitute.

They dismounted in front of the cantina and tethered the horses. There was no door, just the beaded entry. Vin pulled out the Mare's Leg and swept the strands aside, entering as cautiously as if every gun in the place would be leveled at him.

There were no guns. Just a weary barmaid wiping up the floor and one drunk who hadn't made it out the door and sat, snoring, at one of the tables.

Chris's spurs jangled as he crossed the room. The barmaid stood and looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Vin shook his head. "Ease up, Larabee, she ain't gonna shoot ya."

"You sure about that, pard?" Buck asked.

Vin took off his hat and inquired quietly if Jake was there. She nodded and he gave her something – perhaps a coin – and she vanished into the back room. Vin settled at the bar flanked by Chris and Buck.

Buck sat facing the outside, his hand on his gun.

A moment later, a stocky, dark-haired man emerged. He paused a moment, a worried look on his face. "Amigo, you have no regard for your life?"

"I ain't here alone," Vin said. "Chris Larabee, Buck Wilmington. This is Jake Esteban. We go back a ways."

Chris studied Esteban from beneath the shadowing brim of his hat. He took the man's measure – a swarthy, careworn face that looked like it had seen more than its share of fistfights, dark eyes that were wells of sadness and knowledge. Chris knew that look – the look of a man who had lost everything – and saw the comprehension and concern in those eyes when they rested on Vin. Chris felt some of the knots in his stomach relax. This was a man who could be trusted, even with Vin's life.

"Ya got anything fer me?" Vin asked.

Jake spoke in rapid Spanish to the woman, who took off her apron and left the three men alone. They sat at a table, Vin deep in the shadows, his back to the corner, Buck still watching the door, Chris and Jake facing each other.

Chris spoke first. "Darwell murdered a whore last night."

Jake gave him a slow nod. "Alma Rodriguez… If I had known about him, she might still be alive."

"Y' didn't see him, y' didn't know," Vin interjected, "but we need whatever y' got on him now."

"He is riding a big, rawboned bay with a burned-off brand. Least that's the mount he rode in on and nobody has seen it in town since last night. He's carrying a bandolier and two pistols. No rifle, though that don't mean he won't be without one for long. I do not think he has much cash, but perhaps enough to get him to the next town."

"Anybody see him ride out?" Vin asked.

"Nobody who is willing to talk if they did."

Vin slumped slightly. He had hoped for more to go on. Darwell was armed, mounted, might be looking for cash. That wasn't good news. "Think he headed for Mexico?" he pondered out loud.

"Do you?" Chris asked."

"If I's him, that's where I'd head. But Darwell? Cain't count on his mind workin' the same way as most folks. Most folks wouldn't a' cut up a whore fer nothin' more 'n pleasure."

"Most folks wouldn't have that twisted mind set on revenge," Chris said quietly. He watched Vin's expression – the ghost of doubt, perhaps. Chris wouldn't go so far as to call it fear. But he felt it himself – an awareness of evil and menace that left him apprehensive and edgy.

Vin shrugged. "I've tracked him b'fore. I'll track him again. But sittin' here ain't gittin' anything done." He pushed away from the table. "Jake, think y' could sell us some supplies?"

Jake got to his feet. He set a plugged silver dollar on the table with a smile. "You have already paid, amigo. Since when I have demanded more than this?" He laid his big hand on Vin's shoulder. "Tell me what you need."

Vin picked up the token, smiled down at it and tucked it away in his pocket. "Muchas gracias, amigo."

Twenty minutes later as the town of Purgatorio was going to bed and the sun was edging over the rooftops, they rode out, a burro laden with supplies trailing behind Buck's gray mare.

The hunt was beginning.


	5. Chapter 5

Vin picked up the trail just outside of Purgatorio – a single rider taking no care as to whether or not he would be followed – and heading northwest, away from the border. Vin was possibly the only one not surprised by that track. He bent low over Peso's neck, looking for signs of Darwell's passage. Occasionally he would dismount and stretch, then kneel and study some disturbance of dirt that seemed to speak to him.

Chris watched him. Given a less serious situation, he would have been amused by such single-minded devotion to a purpose, but he was too aware of the gravity of the task Vin had set for himself and worried about the consequences of the pursuit. Tanner wasn't looking like a man who was recovered from a beating; he looked like a man who was aching, weary and worn out. Every hard bone and angle of his face was sculpted into a pale mask of exhaustion.

Chris opened his canteen and took a swallow of warm, tinny water. "Vin, let's take a few minutes here." He gestured to the copse of drought-stunted trees nearby.   
"There's shade, some forage for the horses and my belly is tellin' me breakfast was too damn long ago."

Vin rose reluctantly. "I got a feelin' we ain't gettin' any closer and the longer we linger, the farther away he gits."

Buck shifted in his saddle. "Hell, Vin, Darwell ain't made of iron. The man's gotta rest r' risk killin' his horse."

"Y' think he gives a damn about that?" Vin asked.

"Not from the kindness of his heart, no, but horses ain't springin' outta the ground around here, least not as far as I can see. C'mon, you're lookin' a bit gray around the gills. Wouldn't hurt you none to take a breather."

Chris watched the expressions chase across Vin's face – first stubborn refusal, then acknowledgment, then relief. He mounted Peso and they rode into the shelter of the trees.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin didn't eat much, just some jerky and dried apples chased by a cup of diluted whiskey. It was hot, the sun high in the sky, and Buck was right about taking a breather. Vin figured he could stand an hour or two of rest. Darwell's trail had led them steadily west for the last few miles, following the track of a shallow gully that promised the possibility of water along the way. Chances were good Clyde had sought shelter from the sun and heat just as they were. He might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

"You need t' rest?" Chris asked. He crouched down at Vin's side, gave him a sidelong look, tried not to reveal that he'd been watching him closely.

"'M all right."

"Ribs sore?"

"A mite," Vin admitted grudgingly. "Got a headache from the sun is all."

"Lie down, then. Me and Buck'll keep watch."

Vin laughed. "Seem's like Buck's beat me to the rest part."

Buck was stretched out, hat tilted over his face. Despite himself, Vin yawned and sank down on the ground. Chris tossed him a blanket from his saddle, and he folded it and settled it beneath his head. Like Buck, he sprawled out loose-limbed and apparently at ease. He tipped his hat over his eyes, hiding from Chris's probing gaze and entirely aware he wasn't fooling him at all. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. It left an odd, warm feeling in the center of his chest that might have been comfort.

Chris sat with his back against a sun-warmed rock. The landscape spread before him, heat-baked and the color of old bones. Out there, Clyde Darwell was thinking about revenge and hate, burning with it. In the distance was Purgatorio, home to thieves and killers. Home, too, to a big-hearted man named Jake Esteban and to a murdered prostitute who had called herself Alma.

Chris lit a cheroot and drew in on the bittersweet smoke. He watched it spiral and curl into the still air like lasso drawing all into its circle. His green eyes hardened and took on the predatory set that drove other men to slink into the shadows when he passed. This time, when he caught Clyde Darwell, he'd drag his corpse back to Four Corners and hang it high.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin woke when he felt the heat of the sun lift its weight from his body; he tipped the brim of his hat up. Buck was still blissfully asleep. Vin pushed himself upright. Every muscle in his back protested and his ribs ached. He thrust his fingers into his hair and rubbed his temples, then he took a drink from his canteen and eased to a kneel first, then up to stand. He stretched out and saw Chris's lean form jackknifed against a boulder. He was utterly still, perfectly alert. Vin walked quietly over to him.

"Thanks, Chris."

"You sleep?"

"Yeah, I did." Faint surprise colored Vin's voice.

"Where do we go from here?"

"Keep headin' west, I reckon, until I see some sign that we're goin' the wrong way or the right way." He held out his hand to Chris and pulled the gunman upright. "You wake Buck. I'll git the horses ready t' ride."

Less than half an hour later they were back on the trail, tracking steadily westward. The sun continued to slide to the southwest, lengthening shadows as the heat faded away.

Vin reined Peso in abruptly and took out his telescope, focusing on the horizon. "Shit!" He passed the scope over to Chris. "That look like smoke to you?"

Chris peered at a scarcely visible smudge on the horizon. "Looks like."

Buck took a look after Chris. "There a town nearby?"

"Only thing around here that big is a stage station, Sudro Wells." He looked at Chris. "The Darwells favored hittin' stage stations."

"How far to Sudro?" Chris asked.

"Three, mebbe four miles." Vin stowed his telescope. He looked grim. "We c'n git there b'fore dark if we ride hard."

"Then let's do it," Chris said. They urged their horses forward, risking as much haste as possible with the rough terrain and the setting sun.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They arrived as the last long rays lingered over the horizon. The light was blood red, filtered through the smoke from the ashes of the stage station. It had never been much of a place – a corral, lean-to stable, small stage house. The smell of smoke unsettled Peso, making him dance a bit and tug at the bit. Vin dismounted. The corral was intact and just outside the rails was a dead horse fitting the description of the one Darwell had taken from Purgatorio. Horse had been ridden hard, Vin figured, but that wasn't what had killed him. Darwell had shot the animal once he was of no more use to him.

"Vin?"

He turned to Buck. "Yeah?"

"The station master's dead. Shot and gutted."

Vin swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "Anybody else here?"

"No. And no sign that there was, either."

"Good." Vin sighed. That much weight lifted from his shoulders. He'd felt a chill breath of memory at his back. "Darwell's re-provisioned and remounted. Probably has two fresh horses and cash."

Buck's hand rested on Vin's shoulder. "He's got a rope around his neck, Vin. All we gotta do is pull it tight."

Vin ducked away from Buck's touch. It made him feel vulnerable. "Y' think I'm waitin' fer Judge Travis this time?"

"No, I reckon I don't."

"Y' got that right." Vin kicked at the dirt and looked skyward. "We ain't got much daylight left. By th' time we bury the station master it'll be dusk, and I ain't stayin' here." He shivered at the sound of a metal spade hitting the hard dirt. He turned away from Buck. Chris was doing what had to be done, but he didn't have to do it alone.

They buried the station master deep and marked the grave. They had less than an hour between dusk and full dark. Vin picked up Darwell's trail easily enough, and seemed unsurprised to find it turning north instead of south toward Mexico. The sliver of moon wasn't enough to see by, so they made camp as soon as Vin decided they were a comfortable distance away from the burned-out stage station.

They made camp, built a small fire and brewed coffee. They had hard biscuits and dried meat courtesy of Jake Esteban – a poor meal, but none of them had much of a stomach for heavier food. Vin felt an ache of misplaced guilt he tried to ignore. Still, a nagging voice kept telling him that if he'd pushed himself harder, ridden faster, he could have saved a life. His stomach rebelled and he set down his tin plate, most of the food untouched.

"You couldn't have saved him." A splash of whiskey was poured into his coffee cup.

Vin looked up, startled. Chris was studying him. Again their thoughts had twined along the same path. Sometimes Vin swore Chris knew him better than he knew himself, and at times he knew the gunslinger just as well. He couldn't say if that was a good thing or a bad one – mostly good except when he didn't really want Chris to see what was in his heart, like now.

He shook his head. "I might've known… guessed…"

"How?" Chris asked harshly. "Read it in the stars? I got news for ya, pardner. The stars don't give a fuck about what's going on down here. You think I haven't tried it myself?"

"You don't know Darwell like I do. Y' couldn't guess—"

"Listen to yourself, Vin. 'Guess'? Like that's something to trust? You could just as easily have guessed Darwell had headed to Mexico, and he could still have passed this way. Even Ezra'd only give you even odds on that one."

Vin did laugh at bit at that. "All right, I'll give y' that much."

"Then get some rest. Buck and I will keep watch."

He nodded his thanks and limped away into the darkness. Chris followed just far enough to hear the splatter of piss hitting the ground, then retreated back to the firelight. Vin reappeared and dropped bonelessly to the blankets he'd spread out earlier.

"He sleepin'?" Buck asked a few minutes later.

"Yeah, this time he is."

"He's killin' himself over this," Buck said softly.

"Not if I can help it," Chris replied. "Not now, not ever." He uncoiled his body and stalked over to his own saddle to get his bedroll. He shook it out. "You want to take first watch, or should I?"

"I'll do it. I'm good for a few hours, yet."

Chris nodded. "Wake me." He moved the blankets closer to Vin, wondering if he'd have to rouse the tracker from the nightmares that seemed to be haunting him lately. But Vin lay still where he'd dropped, his breathing slow and deep. Exhaustion had given him the rest he desperately needed, but Chris knew it would barely scratch the surface of the soul-deep weariness Vin was carrying with him.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning dawned blood-red and hot. Vin woke, his throat painful and dry, as if it had been scoured by sand. He reached for his canteen and drank down a few swallows to ease the raw feeling. He stood slowly, testing his muscles and bones. Damn, but he hated waking like an old man, afraid an incautious move would cause him pain. No new twinges, just the ones he'd grown used to – back and ribs, and a general stiffness that reminded him he was still healing.

He looked around. Buck was snoring in his blankets. Chris's bedroll was rumpled and empty and a pot of coffee was on the fire. Vin figured Chris was off, taking care of nature, and he poured a mug of coffee and crouched by the fire as he waited. He stared into the embers, seeing not the remains of a campfire, but the charred remnants of Sudro Wells. He shivered despite the heat of the morning. Would today be the day he would come face-to-face with Clyde Darwell? If he did, would he walk away from the encounter with his soul intact? And, if he failed, would he take Chris and Buck down with him? Better he should die than that.

Darwell was his demon just like the man who had killed Larabee's family was the gunslinger's. Chris and Buck had seen him this far safely, but he couldn't ask more than that from them.

An idea that had begun as the seed of a dream took hold in Vin's mind. Darwell wasn't far… Vin could sense him like the faint whiff of death borne on the wind. He'd hunted alone before, and he would hunt alone this time.

The thought of deceiving Chris made him ache to the roots of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the pain of seeing a friend die.

"Mornin'." Chris prodded Buck with his foot. "C'mon, Romeo."

Buck groaned and rolled over to his back, blinking blearily up at Chris. "Already?"

"Yeah, already." Chris nudged him again.

Buck cursed and sat up.

Chris sank down to the ground next to Vin and took the cup of coffee he was offered. "You ready?"

Vin nodded. "I'm headin' out to find the trail. Be back in a bit."

Chris gripped his arm. "Watch your back. I'm not sure Darwell's not out there, watching every move we make."

Vin squinted into the rising sun. A slight breeze came up and ruffled his hair. He looked achingly young in that instant, vulnerable, as Chris knew he truly was – not the sharpshooter or tracker, not the bounty hunter or whatever else he had been in his short life, but flesh and blood and all too easily hurt. His hold tightened on that narrow forearm. "You hear me?"

"Yer a bigger worrywart than Miz Nettie, Larabee," Vin grumbled, but a smile curved his mouth. "I ain't goin' farther 'n the first tracks." He snatched up his hat from the ground. "Shut things down. Make it look like we ain't never been here."

"We'll find you."

Vin returned Chris's clasp. "See ya, pardner."

Chris watched him saddle and mount Peso. He handed Vin a full canteen. Vin didn't say anything as he looped the strap over the pommel of his saddle. He dropped one of those winks at Chris and urged Peso forward.

Something was wrong, Chris realized as he waited for Buck. A haze of uncertainty roiled through him. And then he knew what Vin was doing and his uncertainty was replaced with anger. Cursing, he threw the remnants of his coffee into the fire. "Buck! C'mon, let's get this camp closed down."

Buck took one look at the grim expression on Chris's face and spat, "Goddamn it! He's taken' a flyer, ain't he? Don't he know he's got friends?" He hastily rolled up his blankets while Chris stomped out the last of the fire and buried the ashes.

"I reckon Vin ain't too familiar with that idea," Chris said. He lashed his bedroll and Vin's on Pony's saddle and set his foot in the stirrup. "But it's about time he got it through that thick Texas skull of his."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin picked up Darwell's trail easily enough, and that had him worried. Either Clyde was pretty damn sure nobody was going to track him, or he wanted to be tracked. Ezra wouldn't have taken odds that it was the latter and Vin was willing to bet Darwell not only knew he was being tracked, but who it was tracking him.

It seemed he and Darwell were bound together by blood and revenge and the thought made him feel a bit sick. A few months ago maybe it wouldn't have. He looked down at his hands and remembered the two bounty hunters who'd come across him outside Four Corners. He'd shot one with the Mare's Leg, the other he'd gutted after the bastard had cut him up. He'd felt blood on his hands, felt that twisted exultation at having killed and survived.

Nearly hadn't survived, he reminded himself. If Peso hadn't wandered into Four Corners, he'd have died out there in the wild and the crows would have picked his bones clean. Instead, he'd fallen at Nathan's feet and had been picked up, healed and made whole, body and soul. It made him wonder if the past really was just that – past…

He suddenly realized Peso had slowed to a standstill and Darwell's tracks were gone. Shit! Goddamned idiot woolgathering had distracted him. He circled Peso back nearly a quarter-mile before he picked up the place Darwell had turned east – north and east, not south and west like he was headed to Mexico. That unsettled feeling Vin had was solidifying into cold and dangerous certainty.

Suddenly, he could see Darwell's trail as if it were written in flames on a dark night. He urged Peso forward, hesitancy gone.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Frustrated and angered by Vin's deception, Chris wasn't up to conversation. His expression was grim as he tried to read the maddening trail. He didn't have the tracker's skill, but his eyes were nearly as sharp and he knew Peso's tracks. He didn't have time for distractions, not even Buck's habitual soft whistling. Tanner couldn't have gotten that far ahead of them with less than an hour's head start. But when they found Vin, Chris swore he'd either shoot or throttle him – whatever it took to make Tanner realize that friends didn't take abandonment lightly.

"Umm, pardner?"

"What?" Chris snapped irritably.

"Exactly what tracks are you followin'?"

Chris reined in and cursed. The trail he had been concentrating on so hard had suddenly vanished.

No, not vanished, just altered its course. Buck had seen it before he had. Chris turned Pony. He looked to the northeast. The landscape was broken and hilly. It would slow Darwell and Vin, but it also screened them visually and would make tracking a nightmare.

Chris doubled over in his saddle, bowed by frustration and fear that he would never admit. Buck's warm hand on his back finally made him straighten. He was pale, and the look in his eyes was one Buck had prayed never to see again.

"C'mon, Chris, he could be just over the next rise. Could 'a realized we're on the way and be waitin' for us."

Chris shook his head. "You know him better than that, Buck."

"Then I reckon we'd best git ridin'."

Chris bent his eyes once more to the trail, determined this time not to lose his focus. He knew Buck was watching him and felt that support and concern down to his heart. He wished Vin could feel it as well, because if he did, perhaps he'd cease his solitary pursuit of Clyde Darwell.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The noonday sun was high and hot. Vin halted in the meager shade offered by a mesquite bush and an overhanging boulder. He and Peso both needed rest, but he didn't dare take more than a few minutes – Darwell wouldn't.

Vin took several small sips of water, no more than enough to moisten his mouth and throat. He needed to conserve as much as possible for as long as he could. He swore Peso was half camel, the distances he could go without being watered, but even he had limits. He sat in the slight cover for a few more minutes, then returned back to the trail. The marks were more definite now; less time for wind or other forces to disperse the sign of Darwell's passage. He was getting closer, and that added a fresh urgency to his quest. He urged Peso on, his heart quickening.

For the first time since the ambush, he felt alive. He had been forced to endure pain, to accept humiliation, to use all his resources, mental and physical, to heal. Now all that energy was flowing outward, tingling in his fingertips, making his vision sharper, his mind clearer. It was the spirit of the hunt moving in him.

He dismounted, tethered Peso to a scrawny mesquite bush, knowing full well that if Peso were to decide to take off, he'd drag that bush right along with him, but trusting he wouldn't. He climbed up a rock formation to get a view from the high ground. He dropped to his belly behind a boulder and pulled out his spyglass. He swept it slowly along the horizon.

He didn't know what he expected to see; he was looking for a sign, something to tell him he was on the right track. He didn't like uncertainty and wondered if he'd been living in the world of the whites too long. Maybe his balancing act between the cultures had cost him more than he was willing to admit. Darwell had been away from the Kiowa culture longer than Vin had been away from his own. How much of his edge had he lost?

Vin closed his telescope and waited for his thoughts to settle. Then he raised his head and instead of studying the land, he studied the sky. He shielded his eyes, looked in the middle distance and saw his sign. Small dark specks against the merciless blue. He blinked and they didn't vanish. Something, or someone, had died out there.

The vultures were a more reliable sight than the faint tracks left in the dirt. He asked Peso for more speed and the gelding responded despite the heat. Freed from the grinding task of following a trail, Vin kept his eyes on the wheeling birds. When he judged he was close enough to get a fix on their prey, he halted and took out his telescope again. This time he saw a dark heap on the ground. Darwell's stolen horse? The mother-fucker had killed a second mount in his flight.

A sound of disgust rose in Vin's throat. Man like that deserved to be staked naked to a fire ant hill with honey smeared on his privates.

With a shake of his head, he took up the hunt once more.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

"Goddamn, that boy's got more grit than sense," Buck cussed when Chris finally halted their pursuit. He tugged off his bandanna and wiped his streaming face. He'd gone long enough without water. He gave into his body's needs and took a long swig from his canteen.

"He's got Peso," Chris grumbled. He didn't know if he should be grateful for that or not. He'd been entertaining visions of a half-dead Vin Tanner clinging with his last strength to Peso's neck. The mule would keep going even if Tanner could barely stay in the saddle. It wasn't a heartening thought.

As much as he hated to, Chris followed Buck's example. They had to give the horses a breather. Chris poured some of his precious water in his hat and offered it to Pony. He squinted up at the sun. "There's got to be some water out here," he said. "Trick is to find it without Vin."

"You ain't givin' up on catchin' up to him?" Buck asked.

Chris stretched out his back. "Not a chance."

"Didn't think so." Buck watered his patient gray mare. "Might as well keep goin'." When Chris didn't reply with his usual caustic comment, Buck gave him a look. Larabee was staring at the horizon.

"You see him?" Buck asked.

"I see… something." He squinted, then rocked back like somebody had given him a shove in the chest. "There's something dead out there," he rasped. "Vultures are circling."

Buck caught his arm. "It ain't Vin," he said. "You know that, right?"

"Do you?" Chris's voice was low and rough. He pulled away from Buck's hold and mounted Pony. He didn't wait for Buck to follow. He was gone, his green eyes seeing only what lay below the circling carrion fowl.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin slowed as he approached the lump of flesh. The heat of the day shimmered in waves from the ground, but it couldn't disguise the ugly reality of death and decomposition. The scavengers had done damage as well and Vin's stomach churned. He'd seen worse – fields of buffalo carcasses left to rot, battlegrounds strewn with human corpses… didn't make this easier.

Peso took small, jittery steps sidewise from the carcass, wouldn't get closer. Vin couldn't blame him, he wasn't exactly chafing to get a better look. Reluctantly, he dismounted. He pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to filter out the worst of the stench. Had to be done, though.

He stood over the body, looking for the cause of death. Wasn't the easiest thing to see, but he visually isolated the wounds, finally finding what he was looking for – two bullet wounds, one high on the neck, the other to the head. Vin shuddered. Darwell had deliberately crippled the beast, then finished him off.

Wasn't any need for such cruelty, Vin thought. One shot would have done it. Why waste the ammunition? Why torture a dying animal?

Unless that animal hadn't been dying…

Unless you were baiting a trap…

Fine line between hunter and hunted… The ghostly memory of his own words haunted him. He'd crossed that line and he could scarcely breathe, was nearly paralyzed by the knowledge.

Peso suddenly neighed sharply, his head raising up like he'd caught a disturbing scent. That was all the warning Vin had before he heard a shot ring out and nearly at the same moment felt himself spun around by a hard and invisible hand. He hit the ground rolling. Then the pain assailed him like a hundred knives being driven into his shoulder. The sun dimmed and his world spun off into darkness and agony.


	7. Chapter 7

The gunshot was distant and distorted by the heat and the landscape, but it was still loud enough and unmistakable enough for Chris to pull sharply on Pony's reins and for Buck to give a cry of alarm. Then, nearly as one, they spurred their horses forward, fatigue and thirst forgotten.

Pony crested a ridge overlooking a gully. Low, rocky hills rose on either side of the shallow depression in the landscape. A second shot rang out and Pony reared as the bullet kicked up dust in front of him, then a third. Chris heard Buck utter a grunt of shock. He turned, saw Wilmington clutching his shoulder, a grimace of pain on his face.

"Buck! Get down!"

Chris slid from Pony's back, flattened himself and crawled to the edge of the gully. Another shot rang out, throwing up more dirt, but also betraying the shooter's position. Chris fired, angry because he really had no hope of hitting anything with a pistol at a distance. He just wanted to deter the shooter. Buck scooted towards him.

"Chris—" He shoved a rifle over. "Good thing JD made me bring this along."

Chris blessed Dunne, hoping he'd have a chance to thank the kid for his foresight. He tucked the rifle alongside his cheek, aimed and started firing. He still couldn't see that he'd hit anything, but at least he was in range. He reloaded the rifle and gave it to Buck. "Cover me."

"Chris, you can't—" He broke off without finishing the sentence. When Larabee got that look in his eyes, there wasn't any deterring him. Buck sighed. "Yeah, I c'n cover you."

The floor of the gully was littered with fallen rocks. Chris wanted to know what was around that jut of boulders that obscured his line of sight. He didn't like feeling that he already knew what was there, but he'd faced a lot of things he didn't want to see and he'd face this, too.

"I'm heading for those rocks. If it's clear, I'll let you know." He started to get to his feet and Buck gripped his arm.

"It's not Vin," he repeated.

Chris nodded, but in his heart he dreaded what he would find. He headed down the slope taking a diagonal path away from the shooter, darting from boulder to boulder. He paused occasionally, listening, but hearing nothing but the scatter-shot fall of pebbles disturbed by his passing.

At last, he reached the floor of the gully and made his way around the obscuring pile of rubble. Not far, fifty paces from where he stood, was the carcass of a horse. A dark bay – not Peso. Beyond the carcass, Vin lay, his buckskin-clad body nearly blending in with the clay-colored dust, except for the wet stain of blood marring his hide coat. Chris hesitated only an instant, wondering if Darwell was using Vin as bait. But friendship won out over fear and he darted across the ground, half-expecting a bullet.

Nothing.

Relief was short-lived. Chris knelt beside Vin, turned him carefully. Darwell's bullet had caught Tanner just below his collar-bone, but it had enough velocity to pass through. Chris pulled the bandanna off Vin's neck and folded it into a pad, pressing it against the wound.

And then, suddenly, he found himself flat on the ground, pinned beneath the tracker's wiry body. Tanner's knife was poised at his throat and a feral snarl twisted his lips. There was no recognition in his eyes, just savage rage.

Chris grabbed a fold of Tanner's jacket. "Vin!" he gasped, trying not to struggle to breathe.

Recognition dawned in those blue eyes. Vin released him like the black cloth of Chris's shirt burned him. "Chr-rris?" he stuttered, dropping the knife and staggering to his feet. "Whatcha doin' here?" He sighed, swayed and collapsed.

Chris struggled to his knees and did a quick check on the now genuinely unconscious Texan. He didn't seem to be any worse off than he had been earlier. Chris caught his breath and stood, walking out to where Buck could see him from the ridge and waved an all clear before he returned to Vin's side to began working on the still-bleeding wound.

Buck arrived with the horses a few minutes later, even with a repentant-looking Peso in tow. "Found him down by a trickle 'a water," he explained as he slid down from the saddle. "How's he doin'?"

"Had enough piss and vinegar in him t' try to jump me," Chris said with a shake of his head, "then went down like a felled tree. You got some water?"

"Yeah." He handed Chris a canteen and a clean bandanna. "Bullet go through?"

"Pretty cleanly, but I don't like the way he's bleedin'." Chris sighed. He worked for a few minutes in silence, finally satisfied the bleeding had nearly stopped. Vin was showing signs of returning consciousness, and as much as Chris was glad he'd been out while his wound was tended, he was more grateful now that Tanner was coming to. Chris rested his hand briefly on Vin's forehead. Heat, but not fever – yet. Chris rubbed his eyes tiredly. "How's your arm?" he asked Buck.

"Hurts like a sonovabitch." He tugged at the cloth he'd wrapped around it earlier, winced at the pain that lanced through it. "I reckon I'll heal."

Chris turned in his crouch. "Let me see." Buck offered his arm and Chris looked at the deep, bloody groove in the flesh. "You were lucky. Looks like it needs some cleanin' and stichin'."  
Buck snorted. "It don't need stichin' and I remember your idea of cleanin' a wound, thank you very much."

"Hell, you're still alive, ain't ya?" He grinned and reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept in his saddlebag. "Take a good swig and it'll only hurt for a little bit." He waited until Buck took a deep swallow and wiped his moustache, then he soaked a cloth in the liquor and went to work cleaning the bits of dirt and fabric from the gash.

Buck was sweating and swearing by the time Chris tied it up again. "Y' ain't competition for Nathan, but you'll do," he admitted with a wry smile. "Thanks."

Chris looked up at the sun, now low in the sky. "We can't stay here, Buck. Not with Darwell out there and Vin as bad as he is."

"Only place close enough is Purgatorio. And that's a day's ride."

"Don't know what other choice we've got." He looked over at Vin's huddled body. "Start a fire, just big enough to make some coffee. We're gonna need it." He rose and stretched, feeling all the aches and weariness that he'd been holding at bay. He looked up at the clear sky. Traveling at night might not be such a bad idea; better cover and less heat.

He went over to Vin. "Hey, Cowboy. Need ya to wake up." He touched Vin's shoulder, felt that slim body shiver. Vin turned and opened his eyes. They were deep blue and shadowed with pain, but also awake and aware. "We're headin' back to Purgatorio," Chris said.

Vin's eyes widened. "I ain't givin' up on Darwell," he rasped. He struggled to sit up and fell back with a soft moan. "Shit…"

"Easy. We're not going anywhere until twilight. Easier for us and the horses, maybe harder for Darwell."

Vin grinned weakly at him. "Yer startin' t' think like me."

"God help me," Chris said and grinned back. He handed a canteen to Vin. "We'll start with water and work our way to jerky and coffee." He rose from his crouch and went to the fire.

Buck looked at him. "How's he doing?"

"He's Vin. Won't admit to how he is."

"I ain't askin' him. I'm askin' you." Buck's voice was gentle, reproving, seeing the weight of worry on Chris's hard-featured face.

Chris sighed. "The bleeding's stopped. Might not stay that way once he gets on a horse." He gave Buck a wry smile. "I hate doing this to him."

"Savin' his life?" Buck snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, a man's gotta hate havin' a friend like that." He poured a mug of coffee and added a dollop of their precious whiskey. "I'd drink to havin' a friend like that." Chris's surprise must have been visible. Buck nudged him. "Here, you need this."

Chris wasn't about to argue. He drank the hot coffee, appreciating the added warmth of the liquor, though it wasn't nearly as warming as the friendship of the man next to him. When he finished, he carried a mug over to Vin.

Tanner had dozed off again. Pallid from blood loss and still bearing the fading scars of his previous ordeal, he looked younger than his years and more fragile than Chris had ever seen him. Cursing softly, Chris left the mug of coffee in easy reach and mounted Pony.

"Where the hell are you goin'?" Buck asked.

"Darwell," Chris snarled. "Before the light fades, I want ta see if I marked the bastard. And don't try to stop me, Buck. It ain't gonna work."

Buck raised his hands like Chris had drawn his gun. "Just remember that me and Vin ain't up to cartin' your carcass back to Purgatorio."

"If I'm a carcass, ya won't have to." Chris urged Pony out into the gully. Buck shook his head. He knelt beside Vin, shook his shoulder gently. "C'mon, pard. I can't do a thing about Larabee, but I can get you ready t' ride out," he sighed. "And with the devil's own luck we won't be cartin' Chris hung over his saddle."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris guided Pony up the rocky incline towards where he had last fired at Darwell. The shadows were blue, the light gold. The heat of the day was fading fast. Chris slid from Pony's back and touched a groove in a boulder carved out by a bullet. He looked down and smiled. A dark splotch marred the dust.

Blood.

It gave Chris some satisfaction that he had marked Darwell, but no satisfaction at all that he hadn't killed him. The few splatters of blood on the stones weren't enough to quench the slow burning anger in his heart, the anger that had been smoldering there since the moment he'd found Vin unconscious and beaten in the dust. He should've whipped the flesh from Darwell's body back in Blue Springs like he'd set out to do. Only the horror he had seen on JD's face had stopped him. Now he wished he'd finished the job.

He kicked at the dirt, obliterating the blood. The evening wind came up, swirling the dust away like it had never been. Chris shivered. The full moon was rising over the broken landscape. It was time to ride.

When he returned to the camp, Vin was sitting up, his arm supported in one of Buck's oversize bandannas. Food and hot coffee had put some color in his face, but not much, and the grim lines running from nose to mouth betrayed his pain. Chris sat down beside him. "I marked Darwell."

"Bad?"

"Enough to bleed, but not enough to slow him down. Didn't see any sign of where he'd be heading."

"He's jist out there watchin', Chris. Don't matter where we go, he'll follow." Vin shifted uneasily and paled at the movement.

"Three against one. He can't like those odds," Buck said. He handed Chris a mug of coffee and some jerky and dried fruit. Chris ate, knowing that it wasn't exactly belly-filling, but at least gave him some physical energy.

"Man like Darwell don't give a damn about odds," Vin said. He pushed himself wearily to his feet. "Sooner git movin', th' sooner we'll be in Purgatorio."  
Chris thought that even if he could be there with a snap of his fingers, it wouldn't be soon enough.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They rode for several hours before Chris noticed Vin listing in the saddle. "Buck, hold up. We'll rest a bit here."

"Here?" Buck looked at the barren landscape. "We're sittin' ducks here."

Vin reined in next to Chris. "Bucklin's right. We go a few more miles and we're in those hills." He gestured weakly towards the horizon. "Better cover 'n' I know there's water."

Chris touched his arm. "Vin, y' ain't gonna make it for a few more miles."

"Hell, I been hurt worse 'n this and done it." He straightened in the saddle. "Peso ain't gonna let me fall off."

"He won't because you're riding with me," Chris said grimly. "C'mon, pardner." He moved Pony close, snagged Tanner around his waist and pulled the unresisting man to the saddle in front of him. That he didn't argue was proof enough to Chris that he was fading fast. He settled Tanner close, felt the slump of his slim body against his and knew it had nothing to do with Tanner's habitual easy slouch. There was too much of utter exhaustion in that posture.

He looked from the horizon to Buck. "To those hills, then we rest."

Distances were deceiving in the moonlight, either that or they were making better time than they had any right to under the circumstances. The moon was halfway past its zenith when they finally took shelter beneath a rocky overhang near a small spring. Chris let Vin's lax body slide into Buck's waiting arms. It wasn't until the chill evening air hit his skin that he realized how hot Vin had been. He cursed softly and dismounted. Buck had stretched Vin out on a blanket and covered him with a second, his own.

He had opened Tanner's jacket and shirt. Chris could see that the bandages were dark. He knelt down next to Buck and laid a hand on Vin's forehead. This time there was no mistaking the heat of a fever.

Buck cleaned the wound, bandaged it and sat back on his heels. "Least the bleedin's slowed again."

"Jesus, how much more blood can he have in him? He's sick, Buck. And we can't afford more than an hour or two of rest."

"Then let's rest," Buck said. "We're hidden, ain't no sign of Darwell and Peso'd take a chunk outta anything or anybody comes close. Go on, Chris. You're lookin' nearly as played out as Vin."

"What about you?"

"Hell, I'll jist stretch out m' legs and look up at the stars. Maybe think on a few ladies I know t' keep me company."

"You're a dog, Buck."

Dark eyebrows waggled. "Must be that animal magnetism."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Where the hell that idea came from…" He dropped down to his blanket and pillowed his head on his arms. He never slept deeply, but drifted into a doze nearly the instant he closed his eyes.

Buck roused him just as the sky was growing light. Vin's fever seemed to be down and the bleeding had stopped for the time being, but Chris didn't like the nearly translucent pallor to his skin or his weakness. He needed heartening food, not trail rations; a place to rest and rebuilt his strength. Hell, the man needed Nathan, not the rough medical treatment Chris and Buck were giving him. The best they could do was to get him to Purgatorio as quickly as possible.

To spare Pony, Buck took Vin on his saddle. Without having to follow Darwell's trail, they were able to take a more direct route to Purgatorio, but still had to stop during the heat of the day when Vin's fever rose again. Chris let Buck sleep this time, while he kept watch. Vin slept fitfully, muttering occasionally in dark dreams and once, crying out in terror. Chris went to him, took him in his arms and held him until the nightmare passed. When he laid Vin back down, he sat for a while keeping his hand on his shoulder until he was resting quietly once again.

Even though they had seen no sign of Darwell, Chris felt his presence like a dark shadow looming over them. Maybe that instinctive awareness was causing Vin's dreams. It was making Chris's shoulder blades itch. If Darwell was out there, why was he stalking them instead of attacking when they were vulnerable?

Maybe because they weren't vulnerable, and he was. Chris's eyes took on a feral light as he considered that. The tables had turned once again – only this time, the hunter wouldn't realize that he was also the prey.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They rode into Purgatorio at midnight. Chris took the back alleys into town; the same way they had left a few days earlier. He fingered the talisman he had taken from Vin's saddlebag earlier and prayed it would be charm enough for Jake Esteban to trust him.

He slid from Pony's back with a weary grunt. Buck was a hunched shadow on his mare, barely able to hold himself and Vin in the saddle. Chris moved silently to the door, opened it and went up the narrow stairs. He knocked softly on Jake Esteban's door. He heard the sound of the bed creaking, soft footsteps, and didn't think he imagined the faint snick of a pistol being cocked. He slid the talisman under the door.

"Esteban, it's Chris Larabee," he said softly. "I need your help." He stepped away and stood with his hands raised well away from his guns. The door opened slowly, the muzzle of a pistol appeared at gut level and the light from the hall fell on Jake's dark face.

The door opened a fraction wider and the pistol motioned for Chris to enter. Esteban peered into the hallway, suspicion warring with alarm. "Where is Vincente?" he asked.

"Down in the alley. He's hurt, needs a bed and better doctorin' than Buck and I can give him."

"Darwell?"

Chris nodded. "Will you help?"

Jake looked at the coin in his hand. "Were you followed?"

"Darwell's out there, but he ain't tracking us – not that I can see." He took off his hat, revealing his pallor, the strain on his face, his exhaustion. "Can we bring him up, please?"

Jake seemed to study him, weighing his suspicious against his faith and friendship in Vin. He finally came to a decision. "I would be a poor friend indeed if I refused," he said with a slight smile. "But hurry, these streets are not as deserted as they seem."

Chris ran down the stairs to the alley. Buck had dismounted and was holding Vin in the saddle with his last bit of strength. "We can bring him up," Chris said, and stepped forward even as Vin's body tilted and slid bonelessly from the saddle into their waiting arms. They carried him up the stairs to Jake's room and laid him on the bed.

He looked small, closer to death than he probably was, but still horribly fragile to Chris's worried eyes. Jake started stripping Vin down and Chris stepped forward as if to stop him, until Buck held him back. "Let him help, Chris."

Chris swallowed his objections. Esteban's big hands were gentle as he removed Vin's dirty, stained clothes. As soon as he was stripped, Jake covered his naked body, like he knew Vin's innate modesty. Then he carefully pulled away the bloody bandages from Vin's shoulder and back.

"Ah, amigo," he breathed. "Will you never learn?"

"Apparently not," Chris sighed. He sank down on the chair. "I don't suppose there's anybody like a doctor in town?"

Esteban laughed. "Not in Purgatorio, Senor Larabee. There is a midwife, an undertaker, and Carmela."

"Carmela?"

"She takes care of everything between birth and death."

"Will she help?"

"Si."

"Do you trust her?" Chris asked, a touch of asperity and impatience in his voice.  
Esteban gave him an amused look. "Of course." He touched Vin's shoulder, shook his head. "I will bring her here." He rinsed his hands off in a washbasin. "Wait with him."

Because he had no choice, and because he was too exhausted to move from the chair, and because Buck was giving him a baleful look, Chris just moved the chair closer to the bed.

Buck poured a cup of water and passed it over to him. "It's for you, not Vin."  
Chris drank, unaware until the cool water hit his throat, how very thirsty he was. Buck refilled the cup and Chris drank that down, too. When it was refilled once more, Chris held the cup to Vin's mouth, just tipping a few drops to his lips. They parted slightly and a pale tongue ran over the moisture, seeking more. Chris slid his hand behind Tanner's head and raised him from the pillow.

"Easy, Vin. One sip at a time, you hear me? There's plenty more." After a few more sips, Vin's eyes fluttered open. He blinked up at Chris, moved his hands over the blanket covering him.

"Where…?"

"Jake's place in Purgatorio. You're safe, partner."

"Don't feel like it," he breathed. "Darwell?"

Buck stood at the bedside. "No sign of the varmint."

Vin sighed and his eyes closed again. "Hurts like hell."

"I know, pard. I know. We'll take care 'a that, too."

Vin sighed and his lashes closed down, feather-dark on his pale cheeks. How a man who was as hard and deadly as Tanner could look like a sick little boy was a mystery to Buck. As for Chris, Buck had known him as Adam's papa. But he'd never thought to see that care and concern in the man he'd become. It almost made him believe in Josiah's miracles.

Almost.

Jake returned a few minutes later with a Mexican woman at his side. She wore a dark rebozo, and although her skin was unlined, her eyes held the knowledge of the ancients. She just nodded at him, didn't say a word, but set her basket on the bed and went to work on Vin's wound.

Chris leaned forward, watching. Carmela's hands moved skillfully, gently. Some of the herbs she used seemed familiar to him, others were new, but when she had carefully bound up Vin's wounds, he seemed to be resting easily, his pain eased and his fever decreased.

After Carmela had gathered up her medicines, Chris offered his hand. "Gracias, senora."

She looked to Jake, who used his hands to sign to her. She smiled shyly at Chris and covered her face with a fold of her rebozo. She let Jake take her arm and escort her from the room.

Buck sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Woman like that is worth her weight in gold in a town like this."

Chris thought she was worth that just for taking care of Vin. He stood, looking down at his sleeping friend, still pale and bruised-looking, but no longer seeming close to death. He drew in a shaky breath. The room seemed to darken and swirl away from him like water down a drain.

Buck caught him as his knees buckled. Chris's weight bore him down to the floor and he was too tired to remain standing. He was still sitting there holding Chris when Jake returned. Esteban took one look at them and pulled blankets and pillows from a chest at the foot of his bed. He spread them on the floor, making two beds, then lifted Chris from Buck's lap and settled him on one. He covered him, then poured Buck a strong whiskey. Buck drank it down, then crawled into the blankets. He sincerely hoped that the next light he saw would be dawn.


	8. Chapter 8

His thirst woke him, his lips so dry and cracked that they burned and he believed that he was in the desert, hurt and alone.

Chris…

He thought he forced the word out, but it sounded like the rustle of wind through dry husks of grass. He opened his eyes. No sign of Chris, but Jake Esteban was there, leaning forward to hear that barely audible whisper that escaped his lips.

Purgatorio. He couldn't say he remembered how he had gotten there, but he did remember Chris telling him that was where they were headed. "Thirsty…"

"Shhh, Vincente." Jake held a cup of water to Vin's lips. "Small sips, amigo."

Vin complied, too weak to gulp the water down. When he had finished drinking, Jake smoothed a cooling salve on Vin's lips. He tasted eucalyptus, honey, and sweet oil. "Gracias," and this time the word was audible. "Where's Chris?"

Jake inclined his head. "Sleeping. Your friends, they were as weary as you."

"Seems I led 'em a chase," Vin sighed. "I thought I c'd find Darwell myself. Save 'em a lotta grief. 'Stead I git stupid and git myself shot."

Jake laughed softly. "Amigo, you told me that you weren't riding alone anymore. It seems you need to remember that, no?"

"Y' been talkin' t' Larabee. Seems he's got th' same idea."

"It's a good idea, Vincente," Jake said quietly.

"Thanks fer takin' us in, Jake. I know it ain't what y' want 'r need. I ain't never wanted t' bring trouble t' yer door."

"Amigo, troubles come whether you bring them or they arrive on their own. Purgatorio ain't a place for anybody who thinks that they won't." Jake's dark eyes looked weary, his face sorrowful. He patted Vin's shoulder. "You need to sleep, amigo."

Vin closed his eyes despite his unwillingness to fall back into oblivion. There were men he could fight; Jake wasn't one of them. Never could take no for an answer. He felt Jake pull the blanket higher, settle it around him, warm and secure. Reluctantly, he slipped away.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris woke at dawn. Next to him, Buck was still deeply asleep. There was no sign of Jake Esteban. He got stiffly to his feet, stretching three days of trail soreness out of his muscles and, as soon as he could take a step without his joints setting up an unholy protest, he went to Vin's bedside.

Tanner's long hair was damp and curling. Chris touched his forehead and smiled. His fever had broken and he was sleeping easily. Seemed like he'd live to fight another day. Chris ran his finger lightly down Vin's cheek. Damn stubborn Texan.

A sound at the door made him whirl and reach for his gun. Jake Esteban opened the door slowly. He grinned when he saw the gun in Chris's hand. "Buenas dias, Senor Larabee."

Chris eased the gun back into the holster. "Mornin'."

"Vincente's fever broke during the night," Jake said, glancing over to the bed. "Carmela will be back later to see him."

Chris nodded. "You got any grub around here?" he asked. "Been a few days since we've had a good meal."

Jake grinned in response. "I thought you might be hungry. There will be food here, soon."

"Muchas gracias." Chris ran a hand over his heavily stubbled chin. "Got someplace I c'n clean up, lose these whiskers?"

"Down the hall."

Chris cocked his head. "Why the hell are you in Purgatorio?"

Jake shrugged his broad shoulders. "Perhaps because there is no place further to fall in this life."

Chris just gave him a level look. That, he understood. He'd spent enough time in towns like Purgatorio in the last few years. Difference was, he had friends who pulled him out before he was lost in the soulless mire. Problem was, you had to hang on to their hands and not let them slip away.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

When Chris returned to the room, Buck and Vin were both awake, Jake was gone, and the aroma of coffee and bread was tantalizing enough to make his mouth water. He shoved his damp hair off his forehead and took the coffee Buck held out to him.

Buck grinned at him. "Good thing ya came back when ya did. Me and Vin just about cleaned Jake out."

"Longer you take to eat, the colder the water's gonna get," Chris replied.

Buck grimaced. "I git the point."

 

Chris settled in the chair next to Vin's bed. The plate on his lap wasn't as empty as it should have been, bread and eggs nearly untouched. "Pardner, you're as pale as a piece of paper and about as thin."

Vin pushed the eggs around on his plate with his fork. "I ain't got much taste fer food," he whispered.

"You want t' give Darwell the satisfaction of knowin' that he killed you without hardly firin' a shot?" Chris asked sharply. "'Cause that's where you're headin' if ya don't start eating and healing." He leaned forward. "He's out there, Vin. I don't know where, Buck don't know where. We can't read his sign like you can. We need you, pardner."

"Cain't ask ya t' do more than you already done." Vin shook his head. "You ain't got a stake in this."

Chris raised a brow. "Yeah? Well, I think I do. I let you down by not killin' the bastard when I had a chance. I got yours and Buck's blood on my hands – way I see it, I got a damn big stake in this."

Vin looked down at his hands where they rested on his lap. He flexed his fingers as if testing their strength, then gave Chris a half smile. "Hell, you c'n talk yer way around an argument's good as Ezra when y' set yer mind to it."

Chris smiled back, a bit wryly. "Don't know why I do it, though."

"Don't know why myself," Vin whispered. "But times are I'm glad y' do."

It was an admission that startled Chris. "That's what partners do," he said quietly. "You just rest, build up your strength and let me and Buck worry about the next few days."

Vin drew in a resigned breath and released it. Moving as if it were against his will, he picked up the fork and pushed some eggs onto the tines. He scowled at Chris. "You gonna sit there an' watch me eat?"

"Nope." Chris stood. "I'm gonna have a look-see around town." Vin's eyes went wide and he made a move like he was about to climb out of the bed before Chris's hand on his shoulder stilled him. Chris shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Y' cain't go wanderin' 'round Purgatorio, Chris!"

"I don't have a price on my head."

"Mebbe not on a wanted poster, but that don't mean nuthin' to Darwell."

"Don't mean nothing to me, either," Chris said. "And Darwell can go to hell." He picked up his hat and settled it on his head, the flat brim shadowing his face. "Rest up," he said, turning, missing the expression on Vin's face – fear, frustration, impatience, all warring with the evident exhaustion.

Vin fell back against the pillows propping him up. He rubbed his forehead, the ache building behind his eyes. He recognized Buck's tread down the hall, heard the door open. Buck paused on the threshold, then quietly entered. Funny how a big man like Wilmington could walk so softly. He knew that if he didn't speak, Buck would leave him alone and was tired enough to be tempted, but worry about Chris over-rode his weariness.

"Mornin', Bucklin," he rasped.

"Thought ya were sleepin'," Buck said. He picked the plate from Vin's lap. "Don't look like ya ate much."

Vin rolled his eyes. "Y' know, I been feedin' myself fer a while now and I ain't starved yet."

"It don't look like ya missed by much," Buck said gently. He looked around the room. "Where's Chris?"

"Went t' take a look 'round town." Buck cursed and Vin gave him a twisted smile. "Yeah, that's what I said, but he warn't exactly in a listenin' mood."

Buck slicked back his hair, pulled on his shirt and buckled on his gun belt. "I git the feelin' you'd rest easier if I was out there with him. But I can't say I like the idea of leavin' you here alone."

"Give me my gun. I ain't gonna sleep so sound that I cain't blast the guts outta anybody who ain't s'pposed t' be here."

Buck handed him the Mare's Leg. "I reckon even Chris wouldn't argue with that." He watched Vin's hands move expertly over the weapon, familiar and easy. Didn't even look like he was paying much attention to what he was doing, but Buck sensed that Tanner knew every inch of wood and metal.

Satisfied that all was in order, Vin laid the gun alongside his leg and looked up at Buck. "Make sure Chris don't do anything t' git himself killed."

Buck gave a mirthless laugh. "Don't waste time worryin' about Larabee. Seems the devil ain't in a hurry to share his place in hell." But he softened his words with a touch on Vin's shoulder. "I'll keep my eye on him. Been doin' it for a while now and we're both still alive." He picked up his hat and closed the door behind him when he left the room.

Vin relaxed back on the pillows, one finger stroking lightly down the smooth wood of the Mare's Leg. He thought of Darwell coming through that door, wanted it badly enough that he could see the shock on his face, the horrified realization that he was about to be gutted by a blast from the Mare's Leg. His finger caressed the trigger guard, and the only thing that kept him from touching the trigger itself was an instinctive caution that not even his desire to lose himself in the vision of Darwell's death could overcome.

But his protective instincts were roused, and when Jake entered the room a few minutes later, he found himself staring down the muzzle of the Mare's Leg, and in the disconcerting knowledge that he was the target of Vin's narrowed blue eyes. His arms went up and he was backing out of the room when Vin began trembling, fading strength and pain taking the place of lethal necessity. The Mare's Leg slanted down, and then slipped from Vin's fingers as his body slumped against the pillows.

"Vincente!" Jake was back in the room and at the bedside in a few quick strides. Vin's narrow chest was rising and falling rapidly and a faint sheen of sweat filmed his pale cheeks. Jake poured a mug of water and carefully held it to his lips. Vin took a few swallows, then pushed Jake's hand away.

"'M all right. Sorry, Jake. Didn't mean t' git y' in my sights," he rasped.

Jake raised a brow at him. "Darwell?" he asked.

Vin sighed and looked away. "Mebbe. Didn't think I'd git so lucky."

"Where are your friends?"

"Chris went t' take a look 'round, an' Buck went t' look after Chris."

"You should not be alone." And then realizing how foolish that sounded when he had found himself faced with Tanner's gun, he grinned. "For long," he amended.

"Wasn't." Vin closed his eyes, suddenly weary.

"Carmela will be here soon to take a look at your wound."

"Carmela?"

"Ah, you don't remember… She took care of you last night."  
"Who is she?"

"Just a woman who knows how to heal."

Vin opened his eyes. "That all?"

Jake ducked his head like he hadn't really heard Vin's question. Vin smiled. "Must be a real nice lady." He felt a certain pleasure for his old friend when Jake's silence confirmed his suspicion. He reached for the mug and drank a few more sips of water. Before he could say anything else, there was a soft knock on the door.

Jake opened it a cautious crack, then wider. A woman entered, nodded to Jake and shyly approached Vin's bedside. She touched his shoulder and he lay back, a bit wary and watchful. He wasn't a man who trusted to touch, a bit like a wild creature lately tamed. He found her silence odd until he saw her turn to Jake and her fingers flutter in some sort of private sign language they had developed.

Mute, but not deaf, because Jake replied in rapid Spanish and she nodded, comprehending. Vin figured he'd best let her do what she had to do, pretty much like he let Nathan tend to him. He could tell from her touch that she was gentle and wouldn't hurt him more than necessary.

She didn't. She peeled the bandages away from his shoulder, felt the skin for the heat of infection, bent close and sniffed for the scent of bad flesh. Smiling, she straightened and cleaned the wound with warm water that smelled like mint and eucalyptus, then smeared a cloth pad with ointment and bound it into place. When she had finished, she smoothed his hair from his forehead, like a mother might, settling the blankets close to his body. She stirred a packet of herbs into the mug of water. The beverage was cool and faintly bitter, but not as unpleasant as some of Nathan's teas. Vin drank the infusion, then decided to give up the fight to stay awake. He'd talk to Jake later… when Chris came back…


	9. Chapter 9

Purgatorio was not a town to wake at dawn. Chris walked down streets that were nearly deserted; a few drunks lingering in doorways and alleys – some stirring, some not, some possibly dead. He paused by a man passed out on the sidewalk, knew he was still alive by the groan as Chris rolled him over with the toe of his boot. Chris looked down at him with disinterested pity; ironic to think that but for the rage in his heart that drove him to revenge more than despair, he could have been just another drunk passed out in some nameless pissant town.

He didn't know what he was looking for. He certainly didn't expect Darwell to suddenly appear in front of him just waiting to be gunned down. That desire was so strong in him that he could taste the bitter tang of gunpowder on his tongue, feel his palm tingling from the recoil of his revolver. He flexed his fingers, shrugged the tension from his shoulders. He paused, his gunslinger's sixth sense telling him that there was somebody at his back. He turned, his hand poised above his gun and ready to draw.

"Whoa, partner. It's a bit early fer gunplay." Buck was backing from him, smiling but cautious.

The tension drained from him and his hand fell away from his gun, his shoulders relaxing and a grim smile touching his lips. "Y' ought to know better 'n to come up at my back, especially here, of all places."

Buck nodded, serious again. "Reckon I'm used to Four Corners."

Chris leaned against a wall. "Yeah." He'd gotten used to a lot of things he wished he hadn't. Used to having Sarah and Adam, used to not having them, used to liquor and pain. And, lately, used to having Vin and the others at his back. But his old instincts had never left him entirely and they came back in full force whenever he was in Purgatorio.

"You find any sign of Darwell?" Buck asked.

"No more bodies, if that's what you mean."

"He ain't here. He's out there, waitin' on us to ride out."

Chris studied his boots. "I don't know, Buck. If he were like any other man, I'd say that would make sense, but Darwell's not like that. He wants something, he'll go after it and not give a damn about what other men would do. He ain't sane… he ain't normal. And he wants Vin dead."

Buck heaved a sigh. "That's a real cheerful thought, Larabee. You got any more sweetness and light ya'd like to share?"

"Maybe we ought to take a look around. You feel like talkin' to the senoritas across the way?"

Buck smiled and stroked his moustache. "And what are you gonna do?"

"Have a few drinks," Chris replied tersely. "Meet you back in Vin's room in an hour."

The first cantina Chris stopped in was nothing more than a dark room – the lowest of places a man could get a drink even in a town like Purgatorio. He stood at the rickety bar and ordered a beer, figuring it was safer than the killer tequila and whiskey the cantina was bound to serve. The other patrons of the bar were slouched in chairs, their faces in shadows, hiding from prying eyes. None of them were Darwell. Chris wasn't even sure Darwell would have chosen this place – something about the generally seedy aura and furtive clientele seemed contrary to Darwell's character. He'd want to be seen, want to be found.

Chris didn't even drink the whole bottle. He laid a coin on the bar and went into the brighter light outside. He tilted his hat to shade his eyes and walked down to the next watering hole. He'd been in that one before and knew it was clean and the barkeep honest enough so his whiskey could be trusted not to burn a hole in your stomach. A man could sit in the corner and nurse his hurts in peace, or, if he wanted company of a different kind, a whore could be found to provide it. Chris knew a few of them, knew they'd talk to him for a price.

He pushed aside the beaded strands that hung in the doorway and stalked over to the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and took it to a table. He sat there for a while until two of the whores who frequented the premises entered the cantina. They moved languidly, like they were only half-awake. Probably were if they'd had a late night. Chris lifted his glass and one of them went to the bar and joined him at the table with a bottle. He'd seen her around, but had never slept with her.

She slid into the chair next to him and poured a shot of whiskey into his glass. Her hand moved intimately over his thigh and Chris watched her for a few minutes, saw the avid hunger in her eyes. Briefly, he considered letting her continue with her seduction, but his time was limited… and his money had to go for more than his personal satisfaction.

He covered her hand with his own and lifted it to the tabletop. "It's a mite early, senorita, and I had a long night."

"Al igual que yo," the whore murmured throatily.

Chris shook his head. "Ingles?"

"I also, senor."

"It's different for men," Chris said, not at all sure she understood, but she laughed.

"I could make it very easy for you." She freed her hand and before he could stop her, she was kneading his crotch.

Chris clasped her around the wrist and moved her hand away from his body. "That's not what I want," he hissed. "But I will pay if you make it worth my while."

She paled. "What do you want, senor?" She looked alarmed, nearly terrified and Chris got a queasy feeling in his stomach.

"I'm looking for a man, might be in town, might not." Chris described Darwell in a low voice and felt the whore's pulse leap beneath his fingertips. "You seen him?"

"N-no, senor." She shook her head and tried to pull away from his clasp. "Not that man."

He wished he knew the Spanish word for liar. He tightened his hold. "You have seen this man. When and where?" She looked around as if she expected Darwell to emerge from the shadows. Frightened still. "When?" he demanded.

"He killed Alma," she whimpered. "I saw him that night."

Chris released her. "Not since then?"

She shook her head. "No senor, lo siento, not since then." She rubbed her wrist as if it hurt and Chris saw the reddened imprint of his fingerprints on her skin.

"No, senorita, lo siento. I didn't mean to hurt you." He pulled out some money, about what it would have cost him for the hand job she had offered. "Gracias."

She snatched up the bills and stuffed them down the bodice of her blouse. Chris held out a few more coins. "If you see this man, you come to me, sabe? At Jake Esteban's. That goes for Rosita or any of the other girls you know. Comprende?"

She nodded and took the coins. Then she got up and went over to Rosita, whispering to her. Rosita looked at Chris, her expression one of fear and suspicion. Chris got up from the table, tipped his hat to the two prostitutes, and left. He didn't know what he felt – relief, perhaps that Darwell wasn't in town, apprehension that he didn't know where the bastard was, and exhaustion.

Tired in mind and body, he started back towards Jake's cantina. He wondered what Buck had learned from the women at the whorehouse where Alma had been murdered. He hoped Buck had remembered he was supposed to talk.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin was awakened from a doze by an insistent pressure on his bladder. He pushed himself upright with an effort and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The chamber pot was under the bed. He nudged it out with his foot so he could use it. When he had finished and realized he could stand upright without keeling over, he reached for the trousers and shirt that were laid at the foot of the bed, and dressed. His boots were nearby and he wrestled them on, using his left arm as little as possible.

Once he was dressed, he wandered over to the table where Jake had set the remains of his breakfast. He ate the bread, shoveled the cold eggs onto a tortilla and ate that. Would have been better hot, but he needed the weight in his stomach. He buckled on his rig and holstered the Mare's Leg. Every movement hurt and he felt as weak as a newborn colt. Disgusted, he cautiously opened the door and stepped out into the deserted hall. The aroma of coffee and frying onions lured him toward the cantina. He paused at the rail overlooking the main floor and saw nothing and nobody to cause alarm, so he ordered a plate of food and a cup of coffee at the bar. He sat at the corner table, his back to the wall and a clear view to the door. He wondered where Jake was and smiled to think that maybe he was with Carmela. There was no sign of either Buck or Chris. Worrisome, but not alarming, and the town was quiet as it wouldn't be if either of them had found trouble.

When his food came, he ate it, though he did so more out of necessity than true hunger. It was better than the trail rations of the last few days and he could nearly hear Nathan's voice telling him he had to eat to build up his strength. So he'd eat.

He was still sitting there when Chris stalked into the cantina, went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Vin leaned forward slightly, waiting to see how long it would take for Larabee to notice he was there. It took about as long as the thought. Chris turned slowly, saw him and came over to the table.

"Rough mornin', Cowboy?" Vin asked, one brow aslant.

Chris hooked a chair over and sat. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was gruff but his eyes were concerned.

"I'm eatin' breakfast. Looks like yer drinkin' yours."

Chris tossed back the shot he had poured. "You'd be drinkin', too."

Vin felt sick. "He ain't… Darwell ain't…"

Chris shook his head. "Not that anybody's seen. Even the whores ain't talkin'."

"Ain't or won't?"

"Maybe both." Chris eyed the inch of liquor left in the bottle and poured it in the shot glass, though he did not drink it. "You didn't see what he did to that girl. Buck is supposed to be talkin' to the ladies across the way."

Vin laughed at that. "Mighta been better if he'd gone drinkin' while you went across the way." He ate in silence for a few minutes, aware of Chris watching him. "Ya gonna count every mouth of food?"

Chris sat back, a grim smile on his mouth. "Just glad t'see you upright, though Nettie would say you're lookin' peaked."

"Hell, I'm feelin' peaked. But I been worse." He drew in a breath, looking deeply into Chris's eyes, searching for shadows and bracing himself to ask the next question. "Chris, what the hell 'm I doin' out here, killin' myself, maybe gittin' you and Buck killed, too?"

"You didn't have any doubts a few days ago."

"I'm tired, Chris. And if I said I warn't hurtin', ya'd know I's lyin'."

Chris knew it already, could see it in his face, in the slump of his body, in the hollow despair in his voice that was just barely tempered by his self-deprecating humor. He looked at Tanner, trying to read him. "Sometimes revenge ain't enough, Vin. Sometimes, it gets the best of you – eats away like a sickness until there ain't nothin' left but the fever burning you down to your bones. When it gets like that, maybe it's better to step away."

"You ever done that?" Vin asked.

"Yeah, I did. Not too long ago."

Vin swallowed, knowing Larabee was thinking of that day they'd joined up to save Nathan's life. He nodded. "Chris… I'm thinkin' I wanta go home. Least 'til I heal up, rest up. I ain't never gonna hear th' end of it from Nate."

"Maybe not. Though I think Nate knows somethin' about taking a step back, too."

Vin looked up as light flowed into the room briefly. Buck strode in, saw them sitting there and came over. His mouth was hard beneath his moustache. He didn't look like a man who'd spent time with the fairer sex. He looked angry and unsettled.

He dragged a chair over, sat, and drained the shot glass Chris had left untouched. "Nothing," he said. "Nothin' and nobody. He came and went, hasn't been back."

"We knew that," Chris said. "But I was hopin' somebody maybe had a line on where he sprung from."

Buck stretched out his long legs and sighed wearily. "Where does a man go when he can't hide out in Purgatorio? Seems like there ain't no place on earth that he could run to if he can't come here."

"There's places," Vin said softly.

Chris shivered. He had no doubt that Vin was speaking from experience. He'd hunted down enough bounties and been hunted enough to know those places. Chris, in his years of dark wandering, had heard of them, but had never searched them out, not even in his days as a hired gun.

Buck studied Vin intently. "Son, ya don't look like you're up ta chasin' your own shadow."

"M' shadow's headin' home, Bucklin," Vin said. "I reckon I c'n chase it that far."

"You sure ya want ta give up—"

"He ain't givin' up," Chris said harshly, "just steppin' back."

Buck lifted a brow at Chris but didn't say a word.

Vin pushed his chair away from the table. "I'm gonna say thanks t' Jake." He walked slowly across the room. Chris knew him well enough to read the utter exhaustion others would take for languor. He watched him until Buck's voice called him back to the matter at hand.

"Just steppin' back?" Buck queried.

"He's sick, Buck. Sick, weak, hurtin' and tired. Hell, I'm tired, and don't tell me you ain't."

"What about Darwell? He ain't likely ta hang around waitin' for us to heal up and rest."

"Something rotten always leaves a stench. When we're ready, we'll find him. Right now, we need to get Vin back to Four Corners."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin gathered up his bloodstained clothes and rolled them into a bundle. He should just leave them with Jake and tell him to burn them, but was reluctant to do so. Maybe he just didn't want to leave any part of himself in Purgatorio, didn't want to leave a blood trail for Darwell to follow.

He heard Jake's footsteps and kept on packing even when the door opened and he felt Jake's presence at his back.

"You going somewhere, compadre?"

"Me an' the boys 're headin' back to Four Corners. Seems like there ain't no reason t' hang around waitin' fer Darwell t' come after me."

"You will kill yourself, Vincente."

Vin turned and gave Jake a half-smile. "Naw, I got too many other fellers after my hide t' do myself in. B'sides, I reckon Chris an' Buck wouldn't let that happen." He slung his bundle over his shoulder, wincing as his injured muscles protested the motion. His smile softened. "I– I ain't never had that, Jake." He seemed almost ashamed by that admission. "'Cept mebbe them years I's in Texas after the war with you an' Perdita…" He stopped, shook his head. "I'll be goin' now, Jake. Thanks fer what ya done – you and Carmela."

Jake nodded. "I will tell her."

"I cain't pay fer—"

"You have paid me." Jake pressed a familiar object into Vin's hand.  
Vin looked down at the silver dollar he had drilled with a bullet a long time ago. "One a' these days y' ain't gonna be able t' give it back."

"On the day we are both dead, amigo." Jake held out his hand; he would have enveloped Vin in an embrace, but he already looked about ready to break in two, as slight and vulnerable as a stalk of prairie grass in a windstorm. But that grass had deep roots and hardy stems. Jake never doubted that Vin would survive. The soil might be nothing more than rough stones, but he'd be all right, anchored in the friendship of the seven men who had found each other. "Vaya con Dios," Jake said. He set a warm hand on Vin's shoulder.

"Y tu, mi amigo."

A short while later, Jake watched from the door to the cantina as three men rode out of town, their hats tipped low over their faces, their weapons in full view. The two taller riders bracketed the slim man between them, their unyielding spines speaking of resolve and protection, no matter the cost.


	10. Chapter 10

JD Dunne stood on the steps of the jailhouse, stretching the muscles in his back. He'd spent a good part of the night in his chair, listening to a drunk work off his liquor by singing off-key and off-color songs about his favorite saloon girls. The man had finally passed out around dawn and JD had been too tired to do anything but sleep in his chair. He sure could use a cup of hot coffee and some biscuits. Maybe some eggs and bacon… oatmeal with brown sugar… Breakfast was sounding better all the time.

It was going to be another hot day, he thought, looking up at the blue sky. Not a drop of rain in sight. A good day to be out at the swimming hole, or fishing. Too bad Buck wasn't around…

And that thought sent JD's musings off in a less happy direction. Where were the three missing peacekeepers? Had they found Darwell and dispatched him? Were they taking him back to Eagle Bend, and justice?

They had been gone too long, and JD didn't like that one bit.

He and the others were keeping a lid on things here in town – not that there had been much going on, just the usual drunken carousing, gambling, and a few fistfights. Nothing they needed Chris, Buck and Vin to handle. Still, the three who were gone were the heart of the Seven and he wanted them back before something did happen. Things couldn't stay peaceful forever in a place like Four Corners.

He sighed and took off his derby hat, running his fingers through his sweaty hair. That swimming hole sure seemed like a good idea…

He looked down the road longingly, then shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted for a long moment into the distance. Three riders were coming in, the one on the left was wearing a black duster that rippled around his legs as he rode. A huge grin split JD's face, and he stepped out into the street and waved his arms.

Nathan could see him from the clinic stairs. "What's happenin', JD?"

"It's Chris, Buck and Vin!" JD called back. "Looks like they're home."

Nathan hurried down the steps and joined him. As the three riders drew closer, his smile of anticipation turned into a scowl of worry.

JD gave him a puzzled glance. "Ain't you glad to see 'em, Nathan?"

"They ain't ridin' in like three men glad t' be home," Nathan chided. "Looks like three men tired half t' death."

"You worry like an old granny, Nathan!" JD said and laughed. "They've been riding hard, that's all…" But his voice trailed off uncertainly. By the time the three were in clear sight, JD's optimism had waned. Nathan was right. Buck's broad shoulders were slumped, and Vin looked like he was about to fall out of the saddle. Only Chris's ramrod-straight posture was as usual, though JD got the impression it was the gunslinger's sheer willpower that was holding him upright.

They reined in, Buck dismounting first with a grunt of weariness. He flexed his arm and winced. "JD, Nate."

"What about Darwell? Did you—?" JD started to ask eagerly, only to gasp when Nathan's elbow connected with his ribs. He looked at the tall healer indignantly, then subsided when he saw the worry in those dark eyes.

"You hurt?" Nathan asked.

"Hardly." Buck tossed his mare's reins to JD. "Take the horses, kid." He stood next to Peso – Peso, who normally would have been ready to take a chunk out of him, but who was not even pricking his ears at Buck's proximity – and reached up to Vin. "C'mon, Vin."

Vin shook off his hand. "I ain't so far gone," he rasped. He swung his leg over and dismounted, though he staggered against Buck's broad chest and would have fallen if Nathan hadn't stepped in to shore him up.

Chris was at Vin's side in an instant, his arm going around Tanner's narrow waist. He met Nathan's scowl with one of his own. "Don't ask," he ordered.

"Are we goin' to the clinic?" Nathan knew better than to insist when there was no blood flowing. Anything else could be dealt with outside, and in time.

"I'm fine." Vin was disgusted at the weak whisper that came from his throat. "Jist need t' rest is all. Jist need to git to the wagon."

Chris shook his head. "No wagon. The boarding house – easier for us all, and your food will get upstairs nice and hot."

Nathan sighed. "Then let's get ya there."

Vin gave Chris a disgusted look, but couldn't muster the strength to argue. He knew Larabee was right – no use in making himself a nuisance for everybody. He leaned into Chris's body and let Nathan support him on the right. They made it up the steps slowly and Vin lowered himself to the bed with a resigned sigh. When Nathan started to pull off his boots, though, he drew the line.

"Leave it, Nathan. I ain't sick and I ain't helpless. Must be somebody in this town who needs ya, but it ain't me."

Nathan folded his arms. "Ya rode outta here weak, ya come back here with a bullet hole in ya – never mind them stove in ribs ya had, the fever, the blood ya lost…" He shook his head. "Ya oughta be dead."

"Well, I ain't dead. I'm tired is all, an' if y' quit yer yammerin' I'd git my rest." He lay down and closed his eyes, the stubborn set to his lips brooking no further arguments.

"Fine, you rest. But I ain't gonna let ya get away with sayin' you're fine 'til I get a chance t' look ya over." He gave Chris a worried look but received nothing more than a shrug in return. He and Chris left together and, when they were well out of earshot, Nathan asked Chris, "What happened out there?"

Chris's answer was to tilt his head toward the saloon. "I need a drink. You join me, you might hear the whole story."

Buck and JD were already settled at a table. Buck had a beer and a plate of food in front of him. Chris eyed the food. When Buck pushed a basket of cornbread over, Chris shook his head. "Coffee. Whiskey. Then food." Buck motioned to one of the serving girls and, a few minutes later, Chris had his order.

The coffee and whiskey went down easy and the food tasted better than he'd expected. The others made conversation around him, holding back on their questions until he was finished eating. He splashed a bit more whiskey into his coffee mug and eased his spine down into a slouch.

Buck began the tale, sparing no details, not even the horror of Alma's murder, which left JD wide-eyed. Chris picked up after that, telling of their pursuit of Darwell, how they had believed they were following a trail, only to realize they had been lured into a trap, instead.

Nathan listened intently to Chris's account of the healer Carmela, though he'd hold back his approval until he examined Vin's wound himself. That Tanner had come through that particular trauma without the wound going putrid was pretty impressive.

When Chris finished the narrative, he rubbed his forehead. "So, we're home." He set his hands on the table and levered himself upright. "I'm gonna get some rest."

"Chris, what happens next?" JD asked. "You goin' back out after Darwell?"

"JD, I can't answer that right now." But the weary half-smile he gave the young man took the sting out of the rebuff. He left the saloon and returned to the boarding house. Before he went to his room, he checked in on Vin. Tanner was sleeping, but the Mare's Leg was laying alongside him, close as a lover.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris went to his own room, dropped down on the bed and fell instantly asleep. He woke once in the afternoon to use to privy, then slept until dusk. He woke feeling dragged out and lethargic. Hoping to lose the cobwebs, he went to the bathhouse, paid for hot water and clean towels, stripped down and sank into the steaming water with a grunt of relief.

What seemed like weeks of stiffness and stress soaked away. He didn't know why Vin had so suddenly capitulated and decided to return to town, but his relief that he had was palpable.

He tipped his head back against the rim of the tub and thought about that. He'd seen Vin in a lot of hard situations; the man didn't have the word "quit" in him, didn't know fear – at least not the fear that came from facing down a gun. Maybe it was physical. Vin was clearly exhausted, had to be hurting, might even be starting one of those infections Nathan was so worried about. Still, there was something going on with Vin that the man was doing his damnedest to hide.

Chris decided Vin wasn't going to hide it from him. Reluctantly, he left the soothing comfort of the hot water, dried off, dressed and returned to the boarding house to talk to Vin.

He sat by the window, waiting for Vin to wake. He was sleeping as he rarely ever did – heavily and still as death. Only the rise and fall of his chest and the soft exhalation of his breath showed he was living. And for that Chris was very grateful. He lit a cheroot and drew in the smoke, releasing it to drift into the night air.

Vin roused, first from deep sleep to a shallow doze, the aroma of tobacco drawing him slowly awake. He stirred, stretched and opened his eyes. "Chris?"

"Yeah."

"'S late." Vin shoved himself upright. "Looks like I slept the day away."

"Looks like." Chris smiled. "Just woke up myself." He knocked the ash off the end of the cheroot. "You ready to get something to eat?"

Vin considered. He hardly recognized that hollow feeling in his belly as hunger, it had been fear for so long. "Reckon I could go for some grub." He sniffed at his shirt and grimaced. "Think I'll wash up a bit. Don't wanta put the boys off their food." He swung his legs off the bed. "Meet ya at the saloon?"

Chris stood. "See ya there." He paused for a moment at the door. "Watch your back." He didn't know why he said it – he often did for no other reason than friendship – but this time the words had real gravity behind them.

Vin turned his head sharply. "Y' think I ever fergit?"

Chris looked at him. He didn't say a word. Vin just nodded, gathered up his Mare's Leg and a change of clothing.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

It was quiet in the bathhouse. Vin settled in a tub, his Mare's Leg and Bowie knife close at hand. He scrubbed quickly, not taking the time for a leisurely soak. The short hairs on the back of his neck were prickling with a sense of impending danger even though there was no apparent threat. He told himself it was lingering nerves, nothing more, but he wasn't fool enough to ignore it completely.

He dressed, left his clothes for the laundress and went in search of warmth and friendship.

Josiah was making the rounds of the town. He tipped his hat to Vin and would have come over to him if two men hadn't tumbled into the street in front of him, whaling on each other. They were too drunk to do any real harm and Josiah just grinned, grabbed the offenders by the collars and hauled them off toward the jail.

Vin pushed open the bat-wing doors of the saloon. Chris was there, Nathan, Ezra, Buck and JD. They ringed their usual table with an assortment of drinks arrayed before them. There was a vacant chair next to Chris's and an empty glass.

Vin appreciated that. His usual drink was beer, but tonight he needed something stronger to chase away the chill lingering in his bones. Funny how he could feel cold when it was hot outside.

He slid in next to Chris and slouched down comfortably. Nathan was looking at him and he sighed, "I'm fine."

The healer studied him for a moment longer before he was willing to accept that Vin was telling him the truth. The tracker seemed worn but rested; his eyes were clear and fever-free. Nathan nodded briefly and relaxed.

Vin ate a plate of stew and some bread, drank his whiskey, and felt some of the hollow ache and cold leave him. JD was looking at him like he would burst if Vin didn't give him a chance to ask questions. Reluctant as he was, he figured he owed them all that much. Buck and Chris would have given them the details of the chase and retreat, but Vin knew they were waiting for him to make the next move. To pick up the hunt, or let it drop.

He had no idea what to say. He had no idea what he wanted – to live in peace, somehow… Not to hurt… To be alone, but not to be lonely… To forget what Darwell had done. To wake up and not be carrying those scars that would be his burden for the rest of his life.

He met those expectant gazes and pushed his hat from his head. He combed his fingers through his still-damp hair, then picked up his glass and downed a shot of whiskey. He was aware of Chris leaning slightly toward him – support and just plain human comfort.

"I don't know what t' tell y'all," he said quietly. "Cain't tell y' where I'm goin' when I don't rightly know myself."

"No need to make any decisions tonight," Chris said. "No one is askin' you to."

Vin nodded. He knew Chris was right. He could just go back to the rooming house and sleep, pretend Darwell had leaked into the landscape. But, if he did, he'd never stop looking over his shoulder; was bad enough with the damn bounty hangin' over him. With these six men he'd learned the luxury of being able to look forward while they watched his back. Bounty hunters were only a danger to himself, but Darwell… Darwell would kill them all and laugh while he was doing it.

He took a breath and noticed Chris had poured more whiskey into his glass. He took a sip and set it down. "Darwell's out there."

JD's freckles suddenly seemed a lot more prominent. "Here, in Four Corners? You know that?" His voice was on the verge of cracking and his hands were already on the grips of his Colts.

"I don't know it, JD. But I c'n feel it. Ain't got no proof, though, so you c'n stand down."

The color returned to JD's face. "I'm the sheriff. If Darwell's in town, he's my responsibility." When the others shifted in their chairs, JD looked to Buck. "Well, isn't he?"

Ezra spoke for the first time that night. "The safety of this fair town is your responsibility, Mr. Dunne. That miscreant Darwell… he belongs to all of us."

"He don't b'long to 'us,'" Vin interjected. "He's after me, layin' traps fer me. I don't want any of ya t' run afoul 'a him when I'm the one he's huntin'."

"My friend, it seems that you are laboring under the misapprehension that you are alone in seeking revenge. You may bear the scars, but we suffered through them with you and we will be at your side when you find Darwell and mete out a fittin' punishment."

It took a moment for Vin to sort through the layers of Ezra's impossible vocabulary. When he finally found the core of what the gambler had said, he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. "Thanks, Ez. I reckon I knew that, an' it means a lot to me t' hear ya say it. But y'all know in the end it'll come down to me an' Darwell. It's my right, and I aim to take it." He pushed away from the table. "Ain't gonna be able t' do anything if I don't git some rest." He settled his hat back on his head. "See y' in the mornin'."

Chris knew better than to follow him. He knew the others were watching him, waiting for him to follow Vin. He just shook his head, drank his whiskey slowly, and only when the last burn had faded from his throat, did he bid them goodnight and follow in Tanner's footsteps.

He stood across the street from the rooming house, hidden by the shadowing overhang of the porch roof. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw a slender, huddled shape on the opposite roof. No mistaking that for anybody but Vin. Chris settled into a lean, wondering how long he would have to wait out the stubborn Texan.

Turned out it wasn't as long as he had expected. The shadow moved, the light caught the sharp angle of his jaw and cheekbone briefly as Tanner eased back into his room. A few minutes later, his windows went dark.

Chris moved from his watch post and crossed the street. He went up the outside steps silently and let himself into his own room. As he settled in for the night, he kept his gun at his side. He imagined the others would be doing the same thing, each man aware of the threat that haunted the night.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The shadow came and stalked in the darkness, skulking down deserted streets, staying away from the watch fires. Ghosting in silence along the dark, narrow alleys between buildings until he found what he sought.

The wagon was a pale blur tucked in one of the narrow alleys. The shadow risked striking a lucifer and, for a moment, his sharp profile was delineated by the flickering light. He drew in on a cigar, puffing it into a glowing missile. Then he took a wad of cloth from his pocket, stuffed it into a small space between the canvas top and the wagon bed, and set the cigar and three lucifers in the folds of cloth. When the cloth kindled, the lucifers would flare and the canvas would ignite.

By the time the fire was discovered, he would be gone, but his brand would be left indelibly on Four Corners.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Inez Recillos wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders. The heat of the day had long dissipated and the night wind was chilly. She had stayed later at the saloon than she normally did. Customers hadn't wanted to leave tonight for some reason, and one of her cooks had become ill, leaving Inez to clean up and prepare for the next day.

She didn't know why she felt so vulnerable this night. She wasn't a woman who flinched at shadows or feared the dark, but she wished she had taken Buck up on his offer to see her safely home. His big, comforting presence would have made the night seem much less threatening.

She told herself that she was being a fool, but her pace quickened. The night wind gusted, kicking up dust and making the watch fires gutter and flare. The smell of smoke was strong enough to make the back of Inez's throat burn. She coughed and moved on. The odor grew stronger. She drew up short. The alley where Vin kept his wagon was lit with a wavering orange glow.

For a moment she blinked, as if she couldn't believe her eyesight. Fire! In a town as dry as Four Corners, it was a worse enemy than any greedy rancher or railroad baron. She ran to the nearest fire bell and pulled on the rope, raising a peal of alarm. Then, suddenly, she couldn't breathe. A hard arm was crooked around her throat, choking breath and life out of her. She struggled, tried to kick her attacker, tried to bite at his arm, tried to scream. Pain lanced her side, curving beneath her breast. The arm around her throat tightened, and all went black.

Clyde Darwell felt warm blood soaking his hand. He'd cut the bitch, not deep enough to kill her, but enough to leave a scar, enough to give him a hard-on. Too bad he couldn't finish her off like he had the whore in Purgatorio. He would have gotten a lot of pleasure from this one. She was a fighter. He liked that in his victims, male or female. There was no joy in stalking weak prey. That was for scavengers, not for hunters.

He wiped the blade of his knife on the woman's shawl, stuck it back in his boot, and vanished into the night even as the townspeople began filling the streets to battle the flames.


	11. Chapter 11

Damn Larabee and his cheroot! Vin woke choking out Chris's name. In his dream, the gunslinger had been standing over him, puffing on a foul-smelling cigar, and the fumes filled his nostrils and throat, thick and clinging as bitter ash. His head hurt and his ears were ringing…

He sat up, gasping for air. He was alone. No Chris, no cheroot. But the smoke and alarm bells were real enough. He pulled on his shirt and trousers, stamped into his boots. He was still half dressed when Chris pounded furiously on his door.

"Vin! Get your ass outta bed!"

He jerked the door open. "Where's the fire?"

Chris grabbed his arm. "Don't know for sure. Not far, and they're gonna need help."

They ran downstairs and out into the street. The fire seemed focused but intense, smoke was billowing, shot with glittering sparks and lit by red-orange flames. Chris was several steps in front of Vin, his broad shoulders blocking the tracker's view of the street. He stopped abruptly, turned, his eyes wide. He reached for Vin's arm, as if to turn him away from the sight, but Vin shook him off. He stepped clear of Chris's body. Now he knew.

"Shit…" His heart dropped clear down to his boots. Wasn't enough that he had nothing to begin with – now it seemed all he had left were the clothes on his back, his guns, and Peso.

"Vin, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, jist keep movin'. Might still be somethin' left t' save." He took off toward the alley.

Chris shook his head, but followed him.

When they reached the alley, the damage was apparent. His wagon was gone, nothing but the charred wagon bed resting on broken wheels and the obscene arch of the steel ribs, like a burned corpse.

"Geez, Vin. I'm sorry." JD rested his hand on Vin's shoulder.

"'S all right, kid. I started from nuthin' before. I c'n do it again."

"Ya ain't got nothing, Vin. You have us. You have friends."

Vin looked at JD, surprised. "Yeah, I reckon I do." Still… he'd lost the one place that was truly his. There had been things there that nobody had ever seen, but which had meant something to him. And they were gone beyond retrieval… gone beyond recall. One of these days he was going to get tired of starting over again.

"Chris!" Buck's hoarse shout rang out. "Nathan! Nathan!"

The rising desperation in Buck's voice made Vin forget about the wagon, which was lost anyway. He left the alley, saw Nathan running down the street, and hurried after him. He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. Buck was kneeling in the dirt, cradling a woman in his arms. Her dark hair spilled over his arm, her face turned to his chest. Vin didn't need to see her face to recognize her.

Buck's blue eyes were shining with tears. "Nate…" he whispered, brokenly.

Nathan knelt beside him, Vin standing a bit aside to give the healer room. His stomach was churning. "She alive?" he croaked, his voice shaking and rough.

There was blood on Buck's hands, on Inez's clothing, and a necklace of bruises ringed her slender throat. Nathan did a quick examination. He looked up at Vin and set his hand on Buck's shoulder. "She's alive. Breathin's good." He touched her throat. "Strong pulse." He sighed. "Don't seem to be hurt too bad, Buck. Let's get her up t' the clinic so I can take a better look."

Buck stood, holding Inez close. He looked at Vin and his expression hardened. "It's that bastard, isn't it?"

Vin swallowed, nodded. There were no words. He let Buck pass, then followed him and Nathan to the clinic. He didn't go inside, just sat on the top step. There were so many emotions roiling inside of him that he didn't know which one to think on first.

Fear. Not for himself anymore, but for them all.

Failure. Because he should've killed Darwell all those years ago, should have killed him out there in the desert, not let himself get lured into a trap like some green kid.

Shock. To lose possessions, to lose his sense of self and safety. Perhaps to lose a friend…

He heard a cry from inside, feminine and painful. Tears gathered in his eyes and a sour sickness rose in his gorge. He twisted in time to vomit in the waste bucket Nathan kept outside the door.

When the spasm passed, he wiped his mouth and slipped inside the clinic. Buck was staring out the window, not watching Nathan tend to Inez's injuries. Anguish showed in every line of his body. Vin laid his hand on Buck's shoulder. Not speaking, just trying to will his sympathy into his touch.

"I'm sorry, Bucklin," he said.

Buck turned. "It ain't your fault."

"He followed me here. I should 'a kilt him out there in the desert."

Buck's blue eyes glittered. "I don't give a fuck about what ya shoulda done, 'r what I shoulda done, or what Chris shoulda done. We were all out there. We all had our chances. What matters is that we do it now."

"I'll kill him for ya, Bucklin. I swear it."

"Not for me. Not even for Inez. This started with you, Vin. It's yours ta finish."  
Vin nodded. He went to stand beside Nathan. He had finished bandaging Inez's wound and had covered her with a blanket. Her dark hair spilled over the pillow and if not for the bruises on her throat and the slight rasp of her breath, she might have been sleeping peacefully.

"When's she gonna wake up?" Vin asked.

"I gave her some laudanum so I could stitch her up. Don't think she'll be wakin' much b'fore dawn. But she's gonna be all right. He wanted ta mark her, not kill her."

Vin winced, his own scars tingling faintly. He knew Nathan was expecting him to say something, knew Buck was watching him. He didn't look at either of them. He brushed the backs of his fingers against Inez's dark hair, then turned and strode out of the clinic.

The air was acrid with the scent of smoke and wet ashes. Most of the folks who had come out to fight the fire had drifted away, and only a small knot of familiar figures stood at the alley where his wagon had been: Chris, Josiah, JD and Ezra. He couldn't talk to them, not now. He went to the livery and saddled up Peso. He took a canteen of water, checked his usual supplies of coffee, jerky and dried fruit. Anything else he needed he could find or kill.

He tightened the cinch, knowing Peso's habit of blowing up his belly when he didn't want to be saddled. He secured his saddlebags and bedroll. Before he mounted, he stood for a moment, his head resting on the gelding's warm neck, grateful that Peso didn't require words and wouldn't offer arguments. He didn't have the strength for either.

"You runnin' off somewhere?"

Vin jerked upright, startled. Shit. Larabee. "Ain't runnin'."

"Yeah? What do you call it?"

He heard Chris come closer. Felt his presence like the pressure of air on his body. "Jist need t' git outta here," he said. "It ain't right fer me t' stay."

"Right?"

"'Less I go out after Darwell nobody's gonna be safe. I'm gonna give him what he wants."

"And if he wants you dead?"

Vin turned, a weary smile on his face. "Hell, I ain't gonna stand there askin' him t' shoot me. I reckon I got as good a chance at killin' him as he's got 'a killin' me."

Chris's expression was perfectly serious. "The odds weren't good with three of us out there, Vin. How can they be even with only one?"

"I always hunted bounties alone. Never took up with a partner. Warn't 'cause I's greedy. Was 'cause I hunt best when I hunt alone." He sat down on a bale of hay and was surprised when Chris sat next to him.

"I know somethin' about hunting alone, Vin. After Sarah and Adam… I started out huntin' their killers, but ended up hired out as a ramrod. Didn't ride with nobody, either."

Vin nodded. "Killin's best done alone," he said.

"No," Chris replied softly, "it ain't." He set his hand on Vin's arm. "Not this time. Jesus, Vin, that bastard's damn near killed you twice. Maybe this is something you can't do alone." When he saw the stubborn set to Vin's jaw, he amended his words. "Something you shouldn't do alone."

Vin stood and paced away. He wanted to argue with Chris, to make him see why it was so important for him to do this alone. The thought of what Darwell could do – no, had done – to them all made him sick with guilt. Chris could say it wasn't his fault all he wanted, but he knew the truth deep in his heart. The scars Darwell had left on his body were nothing compared to the scars he'd left on his soul. The only way he could heal those scars was to make sure Darwell would never inflict another on any human being.

"Chris, don't y' see I ain't got a choice? He's laid this all out fer me. Settin' traps I fell in, leavin' trails and cross-trails, makin' me wonder if I's losin' my mind. Markin' me – markin' Inez… He's out there, Chris, jist sittin' like a big ol' vulture waitin' fer me t' take him on. Only this time, he's th' one made a mistake."

"How?"

Vin turned back to Chris. "He brought the fight t' me. He's on my ground now. An' I'm gonna soak it with his blood, I swear it."

"That where you're goin'?"

Vin shrugged. "Might as well."

"It's late. And I hate to tell you this, pard, but ya look like hell." Chris's mobile mouth lifted in a smile. "A few more hours of rest ain't gonna hurt you."

"Ain't gonna git me closer to Darwell, either."

"You said it yourself that you can't track in the dark."

Vin didn't say anything. He just looked at Chris, accepting what he was saying. He walked over to Peso and began untacking him. Damn gunslinger had a way of making him see sense even when he didn't want to.

Chris leaned back on the hay bale, more relieved than he wanted Vin to know. Tanner just didn't take into account some things that Chris did. But then, he'd never been one to spend time looking in a mirror. If he were, he'd have seen how bloodless he was, how the bruises of fatigue marred the thin skin below his eyes, how not even that damn hide coat of his could disguise the near-frailty of his frame. No wonder Nathan had sent him out after the tracker. He'd never met a man so hell-bent on making things right, even if it killed him.

Chris rose, took the saddle from Vin and slung it over the stall divider. He looked at Tanner, felt a need to keep the man in sight as if he'd take off if he didn't. He set his hand on his shoulder. "C'mon. I need a drink."

"Saloon's closed," Vin said with a faint smile.

"Ezra opened up. Seems fightin' fires gives a man a powerful thirst."

"You have anything t' say about that?"

Chris grinned. "Might've had a few words on the subject."

Vin ducked his head to hide the rise of tears. Chris's hand was warm, anchoring him to this place. He felt some of the weight lift from his heart. It was a temporary respite, and with the dawn he'd feel it fall on him again, but for now it was being carried on the broad shoulders of friendship.


	12. Chapter 12

Chris's hope that being with the others would somehow ease the ache of loss Vin had to be feeling was dashed when, after he finished his whiskey and a glass of water, he stood, tipped his hat and left with barely saying a word to any of them. Chris slumped down in his chair, defeated.

"He's just going back to the boarding house, right?" JD asked.

"He was on his way out of town when I stopped him earlier," Chris replied. "I don't know what more I can do."

Josiah sighed, "You goin' after him?"

Chris stood. "I ain't gonna let him out there alone, not with Darwell on the loose."

"We'll all be watchin' with you, brother," Josiah reassured him. He pushed away from the table. "I'll take first watch so you can get some rest, Chris."

"Thanks, Josiah. Give me a few minutes to make sure Vin ain't taken it in that stubborn Texas head of his to light out again."

"And if he has?" Buck asked.

"Then we ride. That bastard Darwell will have to drain every drop of blood from my body before I let Vin take him on alone." He settled his hat on his head and left the saloon.

The whiskey had warmed him momentarily, but as soon as he stepped outside, he felt a chill. The streets, so filled with people a short time ago, were deserted now. Not a soul was stirring, though several buildings still had lights on, including the Clarion office. Chris didn't like the idea of Mary working alone, not with Darwell slinking around town like a viper. He paused, torn between going to the boarding house, or making sure that Mary was all right.

His dilemma was solved by JD's appearance at his side. "I guess Mrs. Travis got her lead story for tomorrow," he said, noticing the lighted windows.

"JD, do me a favor and make sure she's gets home safely. Tell her to keep her doors locked, and not to let anybody in unless she's absolutely certain who it is."

"Sure, Chris. Are we gonna ride out tomorrow with Vin?"

Chris gave him a grim smile. "That's my plan. I reckon the rest depends on him." He watched JD cross the street to the Clarion, then continued on his way to the boarding house.

His concerns were slightly allayed by a side trip to the livery. Peso was in his stall, so Vin hadn't tried to sneak out of town. He'd half-expected to find both man and horse gone. He went up the outside stairs of the boarding house. He paused by Vin's door, knocked softly. "Vin, you awake?" It was a whisper, but he knew Tanner would hear it.

He heard the creak of loose floorboards that even Vin couldn't avoid. The door slid open and the muzzle of the Mare's Leg appeared.

"I'm alone," Chris said and, after a moment, the muzzle was withdrawn and the door opened wide enough for him to slip inside. The blankets on the cot were tumbled haphazardly, but Vin was fully dressed down to his boots. Chris looked from the bed, to Vin. "Couldn't sleep?"

Vin laughed wearily and leaned against the wall. "Could you?"

"Ain't tried."

"I tried. Didn't work." He pushed himself away from the wall and wandered over to the bed. He collapsed bonelessly on the mattress. "Lord, I wish I could… Wish I could jist sleep and wake up t' find this is all a dream. 'Stead, I wake up and find myself in a worse nightmare. Feels like it ain't ever gonna end."

"Yeah… I know, pard. I've been there, too. But you know what? Nightmares do end. You wake up and the sun is out and the night is over."

Vin gave a soft snort. "Y' believe that?"

"I told Adam that when he had bad dreams." Chris's voice was soft. "Didn't matter if I believed it as long as he did."

"I ain't a kid, Chris. Wish I could believe like one, but I reckon I ain't got it in me. There's only one way fer this nightmare t' end. And that's fer the demon causin' it to die."

"I promise you, he will. But you've gotta promise me something in turn, Vin. You've gotta promise you won't go after him alone."

There was a moment of silence and Chris was certain Vin would refuse to make that promise. Instead, he gave that low, raspy chuckle of amusement. "Hell, y' jist wanna share that bounty on ol' Clyde."

Chris breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Yeah, ya got me, pard."

"Thought so." Vin's voice was drowsy. "Go t' bed Chris. I ain't goin' anywhere."

"Josiah's keeping watch," Chris said. "It's safe." Vin didn't speak, but Chris could sense the tension leaving his body. He stood for few minutes until he heard Vin's breathing slow and deepen, then he went to his own room and lay down, as Vin had, fully dressed. He drifted in a doze and when he saw Josiah's shadow at the top of the stairs, he turned on his side and fell into a deeper sleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The next day dawned blood red, as if the fires and the violence of the night before had painted the sky. Vin sat on the boarding house steps, his fingers wrapped around a thick china mug of coffee. He had slept as deeply as he ever did and felt the healing that rest had brought. He no longer felt like he'd drop in a heap if he took more than ten steps, and the pain in his shoulder had faded to a bone-deep but tolerable ache. The scabs pulled and itched when he moved, but that discomfort, too, was a sign that he was getting better. He felt no shiver of prescience to tell him that Darwell was near. But he didn't have to turn his head to know who stood behind him now.

"Mornin', Chris."

The gunslinger responded with an uncivil grunt as he sank down on the step, his own mug of coffee cradled in his hands. He looked up at the scarlet-tinged sky. "Red sky at morning, sailors take warning." He recited the old saying in a morning-rough voice.

Vin nodded. "Heat's gonna break."

"Good," Chris replied. "It's been too damn hot."

"Ain't so good if it brings rain and wind with it. Cain't track if the trail's washed 'r blown away." He stood, stretching out his back. "Best git movin'."

"Buck and JD are meeting us at the livery. Ezra, Josiah and Nathan are staying in town, just in case Darwell decides to stir up more mischief here."

"He ain't here," Vin said.

"Can you say he won't come back?" Chris asked grimly.

Vin couldn't answer that. He set his mug down and headed to the livery. As he passed Nathan's clinic, he paused before he headed up the stairs. He knocked softly and Nathan first looked out the side window before he opened the door.

He gave Vin a quick once-over, as if looking to see if he had incurred any new injuries. Vin tolerated the study, knowing Nathan only had his best interests at heart. When he decided it was time to put an end to the examination he asked, "How's Inez doin'?"

The healer cast an instinctive look back at the cot. "Good as can be expected." He stood aside and Vin saw her, still sleeping and seemingly as pale as a prairie flower.

"You take good care 'a her, Nathan," he said. "Tell her I'm gonna do what I shoulda done long ago. Darwell ain't gonna hurt anybody else."

"What about you?" Nathan stood close, peering into his face. "You gonna be all right?" He lifted his hand to Vin's forehead and Vin, seeming not to move, evaded the healer's touch.

"Th' others'll be waitin' fer me." Vin turned and, before Nathan could say anything or do anything to detain him, he was out the door and down the stairs.

Nathan cursed under his breath and turned back to his patient. To his surprise, her eyes were open. For a moment she seemed confused, then her hand went to her side and she touched the bulk of the bandages there. "Senor Nathan?"

He came to her side and gently moved her hand away from the bandages. "You're gonna be just fine, Inez. Ya need t' rest for a few days, but you'll be on your feet real soon."

"I was on my way home… and I was attacked…" She seemed to be trying to piece together the lost hours.

Nathan nodded. "That's right."

"I was… stabbed?"

"He cut ya." Nathan's lips tightened. "Didn't want to kill ya."

"Who?"

"Clyde Darwell."

Inez drew in her breath sharply. "Was Vin here?"

"For a bit. He– He wanted me t' tell ya that Darwell ain't ever gonna hurt anybody again."

"They've caught him?" she asked eagerly.

"Not yet."

Inez's eyes closed. "He will hurt Vin."

"Not if Chris 'n' the others can help it," Nathan said. He forced himself to relax, to lose the fear and tension that were twisting his features into a grim mask. "He'll be all right. Ya gotta believe he will."

"I pray for it," she said quietly.

"So do I," Nathan sighed. "So do I."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Two hours later the sun was well over the horizon and Chris, Vin, Buck and JD were on Darwell's trail.

It was too easy, Vin thought. Darwell wanted to be followed – it was the only explanation for the sloppy traverse he was making of the landscape. He just wished he knew where it was leading.

"Vin!"

He turned to Chris's call and hurried over to where the gunslinger was standing, something held in his hand. A scrap of material – white, woven, embroidered with red silk. The edges were discolored by a rusty stain. Vin felt ill. "That's the blouse Inez was wearin' yesterday," he said quietly.

"You mind telling me again who's tracking who?"

Vin cursed and flung the scrap of cloth aside, stung by Chris's words. "I ain't lettin' him lead me around by the nose if that's got y' worried, Larabee. I ain't never told y' how to use that gun 'a yers." He strode back to Peso, gathered up the reins and mounted. "He's layin' a false trail, figurin' if he gits me angry I'll make mistakes."  
Chris cocked his head slightly. "Then I reckon we'd better not make them."

Vin wanted to argue that there was not, could not, be a "we," when he came face to face with Darwell. But, for now, he was warmed by Chris's conviction.

He studied the ground, knelt for a moment, focused on the signs Darwell had left unintentionally. He had been so occupied with laying the false trail that he had gotten careless of his real one.

Vin touched the ground lightly, then rose to his feet. His blue eyes scanned the horizon fearlessly. "False trail's leadin' west. True trail's leadin' northwest, toward the high ground. We need t' follow 'em both."

"How?"

"We follow the false trail 'til sundown. Then we split up. Buck an' JD make camp, you 'n' me head off toward the hills under cover of night."

"You got it all figured out," Chris sighed.

Vin laughed silently. "Hell, I ain't even got m' horse figgered out." He set his foot in the stirrup. "Time's wastin', Larabee."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck didn't like it. He listened to Vin lay out his plan, listened to Chris support it, listened to JD ask all the questions he wanted to ask but knew he could never get away with asking.

Into the long silence that had fallen, Chris fixed him with a look Buck couldn't ignore. "Buck?"

"What?"

"You got somethin' you want ta say?"

"Splittin' up's a bad idea."

"Why?" Vin asked. "Y' got a better one?"

There was an edge to his soft voice that wasn't often evident, and Buck had to tamp down his own temper. "Maybe." He crouched down, picked up a stick and drew in the dirt. "You say Darwell's layin' a false trail leadin' west, but he's really headin' northwest. Fine. JD an' I c'n head west, but if we double back once we get on the far side of the ridge, we can meet up."

Chris raised a brow. "You want ta flank him?"

"Sure, why not? We did it in the war, you an' me. Remember?"

Chris remembered. He looked at Vin. "Maybe we've been goin' about this the wrong way. You've been trying to out-maneuver him on your territory, your common experiences, but maybe we oughtta look at this like a military campaign."

Vin stood, his arms crossed, his head bowed. He scratched his jaw, did a slow look up to Buck's earnest eyes. "Darwell don't think like a soldier. He thinks like a hunter. Y' gotta know that b'fore y' go thinkin' y' can outwit him."

"But we can outflank him," Buck insisted. "If he's lookin' at you an' Chris, he ain't gonna give a damn about me 'n' JD."

Buck was right. Darwell had shown just enough of his weaknesses to make Vin decide the plan would work. He drew a breath. "It'll mean ridin' at night t' go the long way around."

"We c'n do that. There's enough light. You an' Chris build yourselves a nice ol' campfire, make him hungry fer the mornin'. We'll settle in, git some shut-eye, then head out before daylight. Give us 'bout three hours head start."

It made sense. Vin couldn't argue. They were four against one, and if it were any other man than Clyde Darwell, Vin might have laughed at those odds. Hell, if it were any other man, he'd have been able to take him down with one hand tied behind his back. But Darwell had puja and he believed that power protected him. Maybe he was right. He should have died with his brother. He should've hung back in Eagle Bend. Hell, Chris should've beaten him to death… Vin sighed. No use thinking on might-have-beens.

"Cain't find any reason y' shouldn't," he said finally. "Just remember what I told y' 'bout Darwell. He's a snake. He's fast, and he don't think he can die."

"Then I reckon we'll just hafta prove him wrong," Buck drawled, a dangerous glitter lighting his blue eyes. "Don't worry, Vin. JD an' I ain't helpless. We'll back ya up."

"Jist one thing I want y' t' promise me," Vin whispered, his voice raspy with emotion. "'Less I'm dead, y' leave him t' me. He's mine." He turned to Chris. "Larabee, y' gotta promise me the same."

Chris nodded. Beneath the shadowing brim of his hat, his eyes held the same baleful glow as Buck's. Vin recognized the killer instinct, knew it matched his own. Only JD didn't have it, but he had a true and loyal heart, a determined belief in the triumph of good over evil, and enough grit to do his part in the battle.

In one of Mary's storybooks, the four of them would have sworn the oath in blood or crossed swords – they sealed their pact with silence and brief nods. Then they mounted up and headed west.


	13. Chapter 13

The night was cold. The wind was rising and there were clouds scudding across the face of the moon, thickening as the night wore on. The weather change promised by the red dawn was coming.

Vin huddled in his blankets, trying to keep the others from seeing the shivers that wracked his body. It came on him like that sometimes since Darwell had hurt him – a memory of that night in the desert when he'd nearly bled out his life, the slow chill growing on him like death. He didn't want to remember how it was, but his body did, and his body betrayed him.

"Vin?" Chris rested his hand on his shaking shoulder. "You sick?"

He shrugged away from Larabee's touch. "Nah, jist cold. Go 'way. I'll be fine." He tucked the cover closer under his chin. Chris left, but returned a few minutes later to drape a warmed blanket over him – heat and comfort and a scent of smoke that reminded him of Chris's cheroot.

"Thanks," Vin sighed.

Chris's hand rested for a moment on his back. "Get some rest. We've got to ride in a few hours."

The shivering abated and Vin closed his eyes and drifted, half-aware Buck was nagging at JD to go to sleep. He heard Chris spreading his bedroll, a bulwark against the wind at his back with the heat of the fire on his face. His heart warmed and his body stopped shaking.

It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed until Chris was holding a mug of coffee under his nose and telling him Buck and JD had headed out on their flanking maneuver.

Vin wrapped his fingers around the mug. The coffee was hot enough to scald, the taste strong and bitter, barely sweetened because they weren't riding with full provisions. But it was the heat and the kick that he craved.

He sipped it, ate the hardtack Chris dredged in rendered fatback grease. It reminded him of the sort of food he'd eaten during the war – near starvation rations. This was one meal, not something he'd have to eat day after day as he had, but it still sat uneasily on his stomach. He ate it because he needed the sustenance, his body crying out for fuel.

Chris poured more coffee into Vin's mug and added the last of their precious sugar. He watched Vin struggle to swallow the hardtack. "It ain't exactly Miz Nettie's biscuits and country ham," he said.

Vin smiled wryly. "Don't think I could even eat that easy right now." He set his plate aside and took a few more swallows of coffee to clear the taste of grease from his throat. He spat the last mouthful out on the ground. "Let's git ridin', Chris."

Chris nodded, poured the last of the coffee on the smoldering ashes of the fire and kicked dirt over the last embers. He watched as Vin checked his weapons and did the same. Then they mounted their horses and rode off as the sun crested over the horizon.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The day warmed as the sun rose. Buck and JD made steady progress over the rocky landscape. Buck was uneasy, uncertain they were doing the right thing by splitting up, no matter what Vin said. Wasn't sure they were doing much to mislead Darwell, either, though he supposed taking Darwell's mind off Vin would be a blessing for the tracker. Damn, but the boy had been looking mighty frail that morning.

He didn't often think of Vin as a boy. Anybody who'd fought a war wasn't a boy, no matter how young he was. Josiah said Vin had an old soul, but his real years weren't much more than JD's. Vin had never said how old he was, and Buck wasn't sure he even knew, as fractured as his life had been. It was just that, sometimes, Vin had a look about him that hit Buck like a fist to the gut.

"Buck," JD asked over his shoulder, "you think we're doin' any good here?"

Buck smiled at the similar turn of their thoughts. "I'm thinkin' we'll know more in a bit."  
"Yeah, but I'm kinda wondering how we'll know."

Buck was pretty sure of the answer, but he held his tongue for JD's sake. "Just keep a sharp eye out, kid."

"I ain't a kid," JD grumbled.

"Didn't say you were," Buck answered and received a snort and a roll of hazel eyes in return.

They rode on, taking no particular care to be quiet or inconspicuous. They were coming on to noon when JD suddenly reined in and motioned for Buck to be quiet. They halted and JD pointed. "Smoke, up there behind those rocks."

Buck peered into the sky. Sure enough, there it was, barely a darker wisp against a blue-gray sky. He shivered. "Seems like we found our sign."

"What do we do now?" JD asked. He seemed skittish, serious.

Buck took a breath and dismounted. "I reckon we take a look, seein' as he left a sign."

"Buck… every time he's done that, it's been bad," JD said softly.

Buck braced his hands on his hips and looked up at the rising plume of smoke. He wasn't about to argue with JD. Hell, the kid was right, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing what was burning up there. Darwell was too smart to leave a fire burning for no reason.  
"I'll go," he said. "You take the horses down to that stream we passed a ways back. There's good ground cover there."

"I ain't leavin' you, Buck."

"Hell, that's real sweet of you, kid," Buck jested, touched by JD's devotion. "But I've been takin' care of myself for a while now." He winked, then destroyed that illusion by pulling his gun from the holster. "Go on. Git."

JD opened his mouth to argue, but he knew Buck well enough to recognize when arguing was useless – seemed to be that way a lot when it came to Chris. He shook his head. "Chris would say you were being an idiot," he mumbled.

"Well, Chris ain't here."

That didn't keep JD from wishing he were. He gave Buck one last rebellious look, then led the horses back toward the stream.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

As the sun rose, the chill left Vin, though he still felt it lingering in the marrow of his bones. He knew Chris was watching his back, knew the gunslinger was studying him with narrowed eyes and knew without looking he had that hard set of worry to his mouth, which would, under any other circumstance, have him half-crazy with nerves, but which he now found reassuring. He didn't know if that was another effect of his beating, or if it meant he was losing the loneliness that had haunted so much of his life.

He reined in as the trail flattened out slightly, took out his canteen and tipped his head back as he drank. A movement, a shadow against the blue sky caught his eye and he brought the canteen down fast. "Chris!"

Larabee reined in next to him. "What is it?"

"Smoke." A jerk of his hat brim, and Chris's breath drew in sharply.

"Darwell?"

"Unless there's somebody else ridin' the backside of beyond," Vin said grimly. "I don't like it."

"Think it's a trap?"

"Don't know. Somethin' sure don't feel right t' me."

"Sittin' here thinkin' on it isn't gonna make it better." Chris focused those green eyes on him and Vin shifted in his saddle.

"Hell." He took another swallow from his canteen. He wanted time, and he didn't have it. He wanted peace, and he'd never find it. Not as long as Darwell held that power over him. "I'm endin' it. One way or another, I'm endin' it."

He nudged his heels into Peso's flanks hard enough for the gelding to know he meant business. Peso responded with a near leap up the next level of rocks. Chris urged Pony to follow, hoping that ending this would not cost any blood other than Darwell's.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck pulled himself up the slope. It had seemed deceptively gentle viewed from below, but once he started scaling it, he realized it was quite steep and treacherously slippery, pebbles and shale crumbling underfoot and sliding down the slope, making more noise than he liked. He half-expected a shot to ring out from above, certain that he was in plain and tempting sight.

He paused, wiped the sweat from his face with his bandanna and crawled behind a sheltering boulder. Gun in hand, he cautiously edged into a position where he felt secure enough to take a look-see.

Wasn't much to see… just rocks and shadows, and a smoldering fire.

Still uneasy, he took a chance and stood slowly.

Nothing. Not even a rustle of grass or a sigh of wind.

Buck took off his hat and swiped his forearm over his face.

Damn. He stood over the fire. His stomach gave a lurch when he realized what he was seeing. Not branches burned down by coals. Bones.

He heard something – the scuff of falling stones that sounded loud as thunder – and dropping to his belly was his first instinct before the thought of sending a warning shot to JD or crawling for cover.

"Buck!"

A familiar voice cut through the thick sound of his heartbeat and tension left him. Feeling like a fool, he got to his knees, spitting dirt from his mouth and beating the dust from his clothes. "Goddamn it, Chris! Ya couldn't call out before ya scared me outta six years 'a my life?"

Chris just grinned.

Buck cussed and walked over to the crest of the ridge. "JD! Git up here!"

He turned back in time to see Vin rise from the shadows of the rocks, spooky-silent even in his boots and on rock. He tapped the brim of his hat to Buck, but didn't say anything as he scanned the scene, taking in things Buck sure couldn't see.

A few minutes later, JD huffed and puffed his way up the slope, the two horses in tow. By the time he reached the top, he was as covered with dust as Buck. His eyes widened as he realized Chris and Vin were there and he took a quick glance over his shoulder, as if he expected Darwell to appear there. "What's goin' on?" he asked Buck.

"Damned if I know," Buck sighed. He took the canteen from his saddle and drank deeply. "I reckon Vin'll tell us when he figures it out." He scowled at Tanner where he crouched low over the fire and studied the ashes. He touched his finger to one of the bones, sniffed it.

Chris crouched next to him. "Human?" he asked reluctantly.

"Naw, animal. Maybe coyote. And old. No smell 'a fat 'r marrow. Must've found 'em on the ground; thought he'd spook us."

"Has he?" Chris asked.

Vin gave a soft chuff of uneasy laughter. His hackles were rising like a cold wind had ghosted over his skin. He didn't want Chris to see it, though. He stood, stretching out his back, grimacing as the bones shifted. He shook his head at the clear look of worry in Larabee's eyes. "Naw," he said, but his gaze rested for a moment on JD. "Damn, Chris," he sighed wearily. "He's slipped away again. I cain't see him, but I c'n feel him." His hand rubbed over his heart like it ached.

"Is that enough?" Chris asked.

Vin squinted against the glare of the sun on the harsh landscape. "He ain't stupid, Chris. He knew we'd stop here and I reckon he's out there, laughin' at us, playin' his game."

"Would you have stopped here if Buck and JD weren't ridin' with us?" Chris asked. He studied Vin's tired face. Too many shadows and worries lingered there for his liking and he realized what he'd thought would be an asset in the hunt – Buck and JD's presence – was just a heavier burden of responsibility on Vin. "I'll send 'em home, Vin."

"Would you go with 'em?" Vin asked. He didn't turn his eyes from the horizon.

"No."

"Y' ought ta. This started with jist me 'n' him."

"It stopped bein' just you and him a long time ago." Chris's mouth took on a grim set. "What do you want me to do, Vin?"

Vin swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and tight, like the dust had sucked out all his spit. "Tell 'em… tell 'em I 'preciate they're ridin' with me, but… Shit…" His words ran out in a rasp. "You tell 'em, Chris." He closed his eyes against the dazzle of the mid-day sun and told himself it was the harsh light that made them burn.

He didn't turn to watch Chris, but he heard Buck's protest and JD's hurt indignation. And then Chris's voice dropped even lower, past the point Vin could pick out words, just the tone of them.

He heard Buck's approach and startled when a warm hand gripped his shoulder. "See ya back in town," was all he said, but there were emotions there that were unvoiced.

"Tell JD I'm sorry. You make him understand why I gotta do this."

"He knows. He just ain't ready to say it."

Once again the grip on his shoulder tightened and then released. Vin didn't watch Buck and JD leave, but he felt their absence like a chill. He hunched inside his jacket, waiting for Chris to say something, do something to break the silence. He didn't, though. He just came and stood next to Vin, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the unforgiving, rocky landscape.

"Where do we go from here?" Chris finally asked.

Vin's mouth twitched. "I reckon we git to followin' his trail."

"Isn't that what we were doing?"

"Not the way I wanted. Couldn't take that risk bein' out in the open. Not with the kid and Buck." He half-expected Chris to make some joking reply about Vin being willing to risk him, but he didn't and when Vin turned and met Chris's eyes, he saw only grim comprehension there.

In silence they returned to their horses, and in silence, Vin began tracking Clyde Darwell to his death.


	14. Chapter 14

Chris had watched Vin track before, had seen the utter concentration in him, as if he were listening more than looking, using all his senses to catch some drift that Chris couldn't see or feel. But, somehow, Vin found the signs he was looking for – a turn of a pebble, the color just slightly different, the shape not quite fitting into the small hollow where it now lay. A tuft of bent grass, catching the light differently. Vin would pause, his head cocked slightly, his eyes narrowed, considering. And just when Chris thought they'd lost Darwell again, Vin would give him that half-smile and, with a nearly imperceptible nod of his head, they'd be off again.

Sometimes they moved fast, sometimes not, but Vin seemed to know the path, as if he'd followed it before. The sun was still hot, but long mares' tails of clouds were beginning to streak the sky. Chris took the canteen from Pony's saddle and lengthened his stride to catch up to Vin. He touched his shoulder. "Take some time," he said.

Vin looked at him. "Naw, I'm doin' fine. Gotta track with the good light."

Chris shoved the canteen at him. "Then drink."

Vin gave him one of those exasperated looks, but he didn't argue. He drank, capped the canteen and handed it back.

 

It didn't seem much lighter. Chris narrowed his eyes, seeing fatigue and pain in Vin's face, as well as calm determination. "Ready?"

"Been ready fer a long time," Vin said. It was the truth. From Texas and the graves of his friends, to Four Corners and the trail left by his own blood on the dry earth. Vin knelt, tilted his head, looking at the bend of the tufts of dry grass, the turn of a pebble that were as clear as day to his eyes – the shinings and dullings of a man's passage that he didn't even know he was leaving. Vin couldn't read many words, but he could read sign the way Chris read a book, better maybe, because words could twist and deceive, but the earth had never lied to him. He could look at the land, look at the lay of it and see the lines of drift a man might follow, paths determined by more than terrain.

"What do you see?" Chris asked, mystified by Vin's stillness and silence.

Vin stood. "I see where Darwell went. I know where he is."

"Where?"

"See that roll of land ahead?"

Chris did. Somewhere in the middle distance the land had been pushed by some force of nature into a formation resembling a slightly cupped palm, hardly deep enough to be called an arroyo. "Yeah. That where you think he is? Doesn't look like much of a place to hide."

Vin laughed softly. "Oh, he ain't hidin'. I figger he's settin' there jist waitin' fer me to show up."

"An ambush?"

Vin shook his head. "No. He could 'a kilt me any number of times. But there ain't no pleasure in a clean kill fer him, Chris. I always knew that, even back in Texas. Him 'n' his brother, they never jist shot 'n' robbed. Nope, that would 'a been easy. They cut 'n' whipped 'n' broke. An' women… Shit, Chris. Y' know what they did 'n' then, if they's still alive, they cut 'em jist like that whore, Alma."

"I ain't so sure I like what's goin' on in that mind of yours, partner."

"I ain't stakin' myself out, Larabee." 

Chris's eyes widened a bit. Tanner's mind-reading was only slightly less accurate than his tracking when it came to Larabee's thoughts. He didn't know if he should be relieved or not, since Vin wasn't about to give anything away.

Vin smiled as if he knew it. "He thinks he knows me, but he don't. He ain't seein' what I'm seein' from here… an' he cain't read sign from up there, not like I c'n read what he left fer me. He ain't right in his mind no more. All he's thinkin' of is how much he wants me dead."

Chris drew in a breath. "I gotta tell you, stalking a crazy man whose only need is to see you dead ain't exactly my idea of a good time."

"Hell, Larabee, yer idea of a good time is a bottle 'a whiskey 'n' shootin' at anybody who looks at y' cross-eyed."

"That's the point." Chris looked out over the land to that roll and rise in the distance. "Ain't nobody doin' the shootin' but me."

"I ain't gonna die, Chris. He didn't kill me then, he ain't gonna kill me now."

"Where's Ezra when you want to place a bet?" Chris grumbled.

"Let's git goin' whilst I still got the light." Vin shielded his eyes. "Weather's gonna change. Rain's comin'." To Chris's surprise, Vin mounted Peso. He looked down, a slight smile on his lips. "Y' ridin' 'r not?"

Chris hauled himself into the saddle. "I'm riding."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The haze that had veiled the sun grew thicker and long streamers of clouds reached from the horizon like seeking fingers. The rising wind kicked up dust devils and ruffled the fringe on Vin's jacket. He seemed not to notice, but he lifted his head as if he could scent the coming rain. Chris's apprehension was due to an entirely different cause. The short hairs on his neck were rising and he felt a trickle of perspiration working its way down his temple to his cheek, to his neck. The touch of the wind on the damp trail was like a cold finger pressed against his skin.

"Vin—"

The tracker raised his hand, shushing him. He turned slowly, his face pale and his eyes narrow and hard. "We ain't alone out here, Chris," he rasped.

Then, as if Darwell had heard Vin's whisper, a shot ricocheted off the ground in front of them, sending both horses dancing. Vin wheeled Peso, the sure-footed gelding heading left toward the slight rise of the landscape. Chris goaded his horse, following Peso, cursing under his breath. A second shot kicked up the dirt, this time too near to Pony for Chris's comfort. He drew his gun, looked back, his instinct stronger than his caution.

"Chris!"

Vin's hoarse shout brought him around, but not fast enough. The third shot wasn't in the dirt. It tore into his arm, deep into the thick muscle of his bicep. The pain shot through his nerves, and his gun dropped from his useless fingers. He reeled in the saddle, managed to dismount and slap Pony's rump, urging him to safety. He grabbed his gun, then rolled behind the thin shelter of a thorn bush and a boulder.

"Chris!" Vin called, roughly, urgently.

He waved his bandanna, signaling that he was all right, then wrapped the cloth around his arm, jerking it tight with his teeth. He was bleeding badly, but his fingers were regaining their strength as the nerves settled down. Relieved that he wasn't helpless or crippled, he still wasn't able to do much for Vin. Angrily, he realized that this had been exactly what Darwell had intended all along. To isolate Vin, to lure him down an untenable path to his death. And then a grim smile touched his lips. To Vin, there was no such thing as an untenable path. Chris made sure his gun was fully loaded. He didn't know what Vin's next step would be, but he wouldn't be taking it alone.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

This was a hell of a time to think of Ezra, but that's where Vin's mind went as he sheltered behind a low boulder and the reverse slope of the terrain. The Southerner and Josiah had a running game of chess going, neither one of them particularly interested in the killing blow, probably because there was no money involved. Vin sat and watched them play sometimes, wondering what they were seeing that was so fascinating, and why it took them so damn long to move a piece an inch one way or another. Eventually Josiah had taken pity on him and explained some of the simpler moves. Two weeks later, Vin had checkmated Josiah, leaving the big man dumbfounded, and Ezra baffled. When he asked Vin how he had done it, he couldn't explain, just said that he moved where it looked right.

He couldn't see where Darwell had fired from, just knew it was from the opposite rim of the swale. His eyes scanned the horizon, seeking something – a glint of light off metal, some faint variegation of color in the soil that might indicate where a boot had scraped for purchase. There were no shadows now, the clouds had thickened and the air was heavy. He closed his eyes and reached with his mind into the void. Opening his eyes, he looked again. Then, just as he had known where to move his chess piece, he knew where Darwell had taken his position.

The other side of the swale was slightly higher; the base of the thumb as opposed to the flatter heel of the palm to use the cupped hand analogy. Vin didn't like that he had been forced into the more vulnerable position, but he had two advantages Darwell didn't: he was a far better shot than ol' Clyde could imagine, and he had Chris on his side. His heart had just about stopped beating when he saw Chris slide off Pony's back and it hadn't started back up until Larabee had signaled him.

Problem was, how could he tell Chris what he intended to do when they were a good one hundred yards apart, and not in direct line of sight? There were times when it seemed he and the gunslinger knew each other's thoughts, but it was more a way of coming at a problem from the same direction, not any unvoiced communication.

He slid back, drawing farther into the shadow of the rocks. Something else he had over Darwell was patience. He knew Darwell would make a move, most likely a stupid one, real soon, even though he was not a stupid man. But he was a man whose sanity was bleeding away by the minute and who could only see one thing, one person.

The sound of a pebble striking against rock made all his muscles twitch. He rolled, the Mare's Leg, freed from its holster, aimed to scatter death.

Nothing. Not in his immediate field of vision. Then a crescent of a black hat brim appeared from behind the rocks.

"Chris…" Vin breathed. "Hell."

Chris emerged crawling, keeping low. Vin nodded his approval, though still surprised at Larabee's appearance. "You all right?" he asked, his gaze on the blood-soaked bandanna around Chris's arm.

"Nate might disagree, but yeah, I'll do." His gaze went to the far rim. "Darwell still out there?"

"Like an ol' spider tryin' t' spin a web."

"I don't like being the fly." Chris lay down flat, as if the thought of Darwell being out there made him more visible. He closed his eyes, his mouth drawn straight with pain.

"You ain't. I am." Vin pulled a clean bandanna from his coat pocket. "Let me take a look at that arm."

"It's f—" His words turned into a yelp as Vin tugged the bloody strip of cloth from his arm. "Goddamn it!"

"He got y' jist good enough t' rile ya up like a hornet." Vin's eyes narrowed in amusement as he folded the clean bandanna into a strip and bound it around Chris's arm. "Thought he could rile me up, too."

"Did he?"

Vin gave a soft snort of laughter. "Hell, yeah. Difference is, I ain't about to go chasin' after him all reckless and angry." He gave a last, gentle tug to the bandanna. "I made that mistake with Darwell once. And I ain't never makin' it again."

"You got a plan?" Chris asked.

Vin looked up at the sky, now mostly cloudy. "Yeah," he said softly. "You up t' keepin' watch fer a bit?"

Chris flexed his arm, grimaced. "I think so. Where are you going?"

Vin gave him a crooked half smile. "Goin' t' sleep fer a bit. It's gonna be a long night." He tipped his hat over his eyes, folded his hands on his stomach and ignored that sharp green gaze he felt fixed on him. He still didn't know what he was going to do, not exactly, although the plan was forming in his mind despite what he had told Chris.

What he hadn't told Chris was how desperately tired he was, how much he ached, how it was hard for him to breathe in the heavy air.

Chris settled himself half-upright in the cover of the rocks. He was tired, but the pain in his arm was enough to keep him awake. Pain, and the knowledge that there was a killer out there. Chris had dealt with a lot of men who had him in his sights for one reason or another. Most of them had ended up dead; some had been smart enough to back down and leave off the pursuit. But he couldn't honestly say any of them had been insane, not like Clyde Darwell was.

 

He looked at Vin, seemingly composed. Even though he couldn't see beneath the tilted hat, he was pretty sure Tanner wasn't sleeping. There was too much tension in that slim body and the heartbeat that shivered the collar of his shirt was too rapid for slumber. If that was the game Tanner wanted to play, he'd let him. Sometimes a man needed his illusions.

The clouds thickened as dusk approached. Chris flexed his arm, deliberately causing pain to keep himself awake. Vin had finally drifted into true sleep, not moving, but gradually releasing the tension that had been so evident earlier. They were sheltered from the wind, but Chris could hear it whispering through the rocks and scrub. It was a lonely sound, bringing with it the scent of rain.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin slept.

…And woke to the cold touch of a gun at his throat.

His eyes flew open wide, but he could not see beyond a dark shadow looming against the starry sky. He lifted his hands slowly, wondering that they weren't shaking from the force of his heartbeat alone.

"Listen, mister," he whispered, feeling the gun pressing against his Adam's apple, "all I got is this saddle and a mighty ornery horse, so if yer of a mind t' take him, I won't stand in yer way…"

The shadow didn't move, didn't speak, just pressed that gun barrel harder against Vin's throat until he gagged with the force of it, and the darkness overhead and the darkness gathering at the edges of his eyes blurred into fathomless night…

He woke with a start, fear tasting like metal in the back of his throat. But instead of the nameless, faceless terror who had whipped him bloody and left him for dead, his eyes opened to the sight of Chris's concerned face watching him.

Larabee reached out and touched his shoulder. "You all right, partner?"

Vin shrugged off the comforting gesture. "Yeah." His voice cracked. Chris handed him a canteen and he drank gratefully. He shook aside the last clinging shrouds of the nightmare. He'd never intended to sleep as long or as deeply as he had, and that troubled him. It was another sign of just how unfit he was – dogged by injuries and memories he was too tired to fight against.

It wasn't how he wanted to go after Darwell, but the choice wasn't his, so he'd best get on with it and get it over with so he could either rest or die.

With the darkness on them, Vin felt safe enough to crawl from the rocks and give a low whistle, calling Peso to him. Their two horses had found each other, and with rare luck, both came to the call. Vin pulled his rifle from the scabbard, retrieved the saddlebags from both horses and returned to the rocks where Chris was waiting.

With his dark clothes and his hat covering his blond hair, Larabee was scarcely visible. They couldn't risk a fire, but they made a light meal of jerky, dried fruit and water. It wasn't enough, and Vin's belly was empty even after he'd eaten.

"Is he still out there?" Chris asked.

"Oh, yeah," Vin answered, his eyes picking up the last light. He sighted down the long barrel of the Winchester. "And one way 'r another this is gonna be his last night on this earth." Seemingly satisfied with the rifle, he checked over the Mare's Leg. He drew his Bowie knife from its sheath, tested the edge with his thumb and replaced it. All of this was done with such deliberation that it made Chris's blood cold. He forgot – sometimes they all forgot – that Vin was a killer.

But he was also a young man who had borne terrible hurts, past and present, and Chris couldn't say he'd mourn Clyde Darwell's death any more than he'd mourn a roach he crushed beneath his boot heel. Hell, he'd feel more remorse over the roach.

"When do we move out?" Chris asked. Vin just cocked a brow at him and after a moment of silence, Chris's stomach gave a lurch. "Shit, Vin. You can't—"

"When's the last time I let y' tell me what t' do?" Vin asked quietly, his voice devoid of emotion, but with an underlying steely chill.

Chris released his breath in a resigned sigh. "All right, suppose you tell me what your plan is," he suggested.

"First, I gotta git t' th' other side. Need y' t' keep an eye out. Make some kinda distraction if I cain't make it across without one." He tilted his head up to the uncertain sky. "Moon's out, but the clouds're movin' fast across it. See the light shiftin'?"

Chris did. He also knew what Vin was truly asking him. Shadows and light chased across the landscape, sometimes dark, other times fully illuminated, sometimes a weave like midnight lace. It was all illusory, no real cover like bushes or rocks, and dependent on wind and wisps of cloud. Chris had seen Vin blend into his surrounding so completely that it seemed he had vanished. Could he become a creature of shadow as easily? Or would the distant, uncaring moon betray him with an errant beam?

"I see it," was all he said. It was all he needed to say.

Vin gave him a short, curt nod. Chris watched as he gathered his weapons – Mare's Leg, Winchester, knife – then held out his hand. Vin's palm ghosted across it, gripping his forearm in a brief salute before he took off, running low and fast, keeping to the shadows when he could, seemingly to flow like the shifting light when it touched him with silver.

Chris watched him, holding his breath both in fear and in wonder at Vin's passage across the shallow bowl. If Darwell was watching, he wasn't giving any sign. Chris saw the slip of movement that was Vin gain the bottom of the opposite rim and begin a cautious climb up the slope.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin paused in his climb, waiting for the shifting clouds to obscure the moon once more. He hated the slowness of his progress, hated that he had to move like a snail when part of him wanted to charge up the hill, guns blazing and take Darwell down like the mad dog he was. He wasn't so stupid as to think that was an option. Just wishful thinking. Instead, he'd creep a few feet at a time, waiting patiently, being smart.

When the moon vanished behind a scudding veil of clouds, Vin moved on, feeling the small sharp stones scoring his knees and elbows even through the thick cord of trousers and his hide coat. The scent of dust was thick at the back of his throat. The clouds parted, moonlight tipped his fingers with silver, and he stopped moving, dropped his head down on his arms, and covered the Winchester with his body to keep the dim sheen of the barrel from reflecting the moonlight.

Hell, it was going to be a long night.

He tilted his head slightly. A thicker band of clouds was streaking the sky, the edges curling like grasping fingers. Rain coming in, and a flicker of lightning far on the horizon. Vin winced like it was the flash of distant artillery. The thunder followed, a long, hollow rumble. As soon as the moon slid behind the storm clouds, Vin scrambled to his feet, and, in a crouched lope, gained the rim of the hill and skidded flat on his belly. He laid still, his heart pounding so hard it shook the rest of his body. When it slowed, he made a second scrambling run to a low pile of rocks and took stock of his physical position in relation to where he believed Darwell to be waiting.

He figured their positions to be roughly equal, and the storm would make things even more equal. But, right now, he had to find some sign that he was right, that he knew Darwell's mental game as well as he knew what move Josiah would make on a chessboard.

He took a few minutes to look at the lay of the land. Pretty flat, now that he'd gained the ridge, but still a bit higher in elevation to the north, and rimmed with rocks like scattered broken teeth. From where he sat, he could see across the dip and roll of the shallow bowl, the low slope where he knew Chris had taken shelter. Nothing visible there.

Good. Larabee was laying low.

Darwell was out there, not far, and being still, waiting. He wanted Vin to hunt him, wanted his eagerness and desire for revenge to lure him into a careless move. Vin wanted Darwell to come to him, to play this out on ground of his own choosing. He'd promised Chris he wasn't going to stake himself out, but he'd never promised he wouldn't lure Darwell out – a fine distinction as Ezra would say – but a convenient white lie.

Jist words, Vin told himself before he could lose the courage to act.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris's arm was starting to hurt all the way up to his jaw. He checked the bandage and his fingers came away bloody. Damn, the one time he needed Nate to stitch him up, the healer was miles away. He couldn't build a fire to heat up a knife to cauterize the wound, didn't have a fresh dressing. And Vin was out there stalking a crazy man. This was not how he'd like this thing to play out.

The flicker of lightning on the horizon didn't exactly ease his mind. The storm seemed to be rushing in. The wind was rising, shredding the clouds overhead. The moonlight was uncertain, constantly shifting. Chris couldn't see Vin, not even a hint of movement. The tracker was too damn good at what he did; his ability to vanish like a ghost into the shadows could spook even Chris, who considered himself cold-blooded.

Meanwhile, he could wear his eyes out staring into the distance, or he could trust Vin knew what he was doing and let him do it. Yet, as much as his body begged him to settle back against the rocks, that damned itch between his shoulder blades kept him upright and watchful. Right now he would have paid the earth for Buck's presence. And wasn't that a fool's hope?

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

"You sure Chris ain't gonna shoot us?" JD asked Buck.

They were riding slowly in the dark, both of them looking warily at the threatening pulses of light on the horizon. When that storm broke it would be a hell of a ride, Buck thought. He looked at JD. "You want me to take point?"

"I ain't afraid of Chris."

Buck laughed softly. "Well, son, you ought to be."

JD mumbled something under his breath that sounded like an uncharacteristic profanity. Sure, he knew Chris was faster than a striking rattler when he drew and didn't have any problem shooting first and asking questions later, but that didn't mean he scared JD… Just meant that JD wasn't too happy about taking the gunslinger by surprise. And he would be surprised, because Chris Larabee wasn't used to people over-riding his orders. So, if Buck wanted to be first in line for Larabee's bullets and temper, then he was welcome to them both.

"Why'd ya decide to turn back?" JD asked. "I mean, Chris said Vin wanted us to leave…"

Buck turned in the saddle. "'Me 'n' Chris have ridden a lot a' miles together. Just didn't seem right to leave my best friend out there without backup."

"He's got Vin."

Buck slanted JD a look beneath the brim of his hat. "Hell, Chris is Vin's back-up. Somebody's gotta keep an eye on that stubborn son of a bitch."

"He'll shoot you," JD observed.

"Nah." Buck's eyes glinted. "He won't. Not tonight. The man's stubborn, not stupid. C'mon, kid. We need to pick up the pace here. That storm's makin' me nervous."

JD grinned. "I thought Dorabelle findin' you with Daisy was the only thing that made you nervous."

"Dorabelle's got a shotgun under her bed and she ain't afraid to use it. Now that's something to give a man cause ta be nervous." He kneed his mare into a lope and JD followed.

They covered more ground than JD had estimated and were soon past the place where they had first split up. Even in the fitful moonlight it was easy to follow Chris and Vin's trail for they had no need to cover their tracks and had left clear sign, as if they had wanted to be followed, Buck thought, almost laughing at that, though he wouldn't put it past Larabee to have just that in mind. It was Vin who had wanted them out of harm's way, not Chris.

Well, old son, we're on our way. Just hope we ain't too late, Buck whispered to himself, keeping one eye on the storm and one on JD as he picked out the trail.After an hour of near silence, JD reined in and paused, seeming uncertain."What is it, kid?" Buck asked.

"This place… something happened. Look, the dirt and stones 'r all disturbed and stirred around like they had to move fast." He slid out of the saddle and stared at the ground, then knelt for a minute. He touched a stone and turned wide, dark eyes to Buck. "This is blood."

"Aw, shit," Buck groaned. "You sure about that?"

JD frowned at him. "Yeah, I'm sure. But we don't know whose, and it don't look like there's a lot of it." He bent again, angling his head slightly. "There's some more… just a few splatters of it…" And before Buck could stop him, he was on the move, heading up the slight rise of ground to where several boulders would give cover. Buck dismounted, cussing out his worry and following JD.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris shivered, and it wasn't until the chills shook him awake that he realized he had drifted off. Shit! He wasn't a man who "drifted" off when a friend needed watching. Couldn't have been more than a few minutes. The storm was still approaching, the wind getting that first chill and scent of rain. It struck cold on his arm, his sleeve soaked with fresh blood.

He raised his head slightly, hoping, or not hoping to see Vin, but saw only the dull, dark hump of the land. The moon was gone, the clouds were thick and low. If he had the vision of a cat, he couldn't have seen Vin.

He sank back down, feeling slightly dizzy and cold, but not so far gone that he didn't catch the sound of footsteps on rock.

His gun was out and pointed in a reflexive motion, cocked and set to fire. He didn't call a warning, wouldn't hesitate to shoot. He knew it wasn't Vin, because the tracker moved silently as a shadow. Then he heard the low, trembling whistle of a bird call, one that carried him back in an instant to another place and time, to the moist heat of a summer night spent on the picket lines during the war.

Buck. Chris's arm dropped down, trembling with weakness. He whistled two soft tremolos in response. Buck emerged from the darkness, his long body bent low, a grim smile on his lips as he knelt next to Chris.

"You found us," Chris said, and then cursed the obvious stupidity of that statement.

"Wasn't hard followin' that blood trail ya left," Buck whispered. "You're gettin' careless in your old age."

"Didn't 'xactly have time to mop it up." He looked around. "Where's JD?"

"Where's Vin?" Buck countered.

Chris tilted his head. "Over there… somewhere. Can't see him, haven't heard a damn sound."

Buck just nodded, as if he understood why Vin had headed off on his own. "JD's bringin' up the saddlebags." He gently untied the bloody bandanna, making Chris catch his breath and look away fast. "Easy, ol' son." He lifted the canteen off his shoulder and with a corner of the bandanna that hadn't been saturated began to clean off the blood. "He got ya good."

"I'm still alive," Chris growled. "Damn it, Buck, finish up will ya!" Chris jerked his arm out of Buck's hold. A long, low rumble of thunder seemed to shiver through the rocks.

"That's a lot of blood," JD breathed as he knelt and handed Buck the saddlebag.

Chris grimaced. "I'm fine. Tie it up, Buck, and let's get going. I ain't lettin' Vin hunt Darwell with this devil of a storm breathing down our backs."

Buck gave him a glare that nearly matched his own, and none too gently slapped a thick pad of lint on Chris's bicep. He bound it up tightly, then handed Chris a canteen.

"Drink."

Chris took a swallow and gasped when whiskey hit his throat instead of the water he had expected. He coughed, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and handed the canteen back to Buck. "You've been holding out on me." He started to sit up, but the world seemed to spin around lazily and he fell back, finding Buck's arm catching him before he cracked his skull on the rocks.

"You goin' somewhere?" Buck asked.

"Vin's out there."

"Yeah, Vin's out there. But so's Darwell, and a storm the Devil's brewed up. Ya ain't goin' nowhere, old son."

Just because he was stubborn and proud as Lucifer, Chris tried to sit up – got nearly upright before his head rebelled and he gave up. Shit. He must have lost more blood than he realized. Either that or he was getting as old as Vin said he was. He would have given one more try, but a sudden bolt of lightning and nearly simultaneous crack of thunder jolted them all, and the skies opened up like they'd been cut by a knife.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin waited in the darkness for the storm to come. This night, the wind and the rain would level the physical playing field, giving no advantage to Darwell or to him. To Vin, no advantage given was a gift. He could build his own advantage from the direction of the wind, from the masking noise of the rain, from the lightning that could blind and confuse the eye as it flickered and flared.

A hard gust of wind rose and Vin felt the first mist of coming rain. The lightning was sharper, streaking across the sky like gnarled fingers. Vin waited for the thunder, then moved. He figured Darwell would catch on sooner or later and betray his position.  
It happened sooner.

A flash of lightning, glimmer off rock where no glimmer should have been, the long, straight shadow that was no form of nature. Vin dropped to his belly as the muzzle of Darwell's gun spat flame into the night. The impact of the bullet was closer than he expected, but still off, and now Vin knew where Darwell was hiding. He lay flat in the darkness, not moving, waiting for the next opportunity the storm would give him.

It was the rain that came first, so hard and fast it was like fists pummeling his back. It was the sort of rain which led to flash flooding in gullies like this one. The rushing water could undermine the rocks and soil, making footing treacherous, or unleashing mudslides that were nearly as lethal as the flood waters. But it also made visibility impossible and rendered rifles virtually useless. Vin figured neither he nor Darwell needed a rifle to be a lethal fighter.

He gathered himself to move. The rain was falling fast and heavy, the lightning turning the drops into an impenetrable curtain of shimmering light. Darwell would be blinded. Vin took advantage and, in a low crouch, ran to the next line of boulders and slid on his belly until he was sure he was out of sight.

The mud was cold and slimy. Vin shivered. His hair was streaming with rain, rivulets running down the back of his neck, down his collar. Misery.

Well, he'd been miserable before. A lot worse than this, too. He hoped Darwell was as fucking miserable as he was.

Being cold and wet did more than make a man careless, it made him shake unless he was able to take himself out of that physical misery for as long as it took to make a shot. It wasn't an easy lesson to learn, but he'd learned it young, in the war he'd had no business fighting, being no more than half-grown that last year and a half. His rifle had been damn near as tall as he was, but he'd never had trouble balancing it. No, sir, not him. And when he took a shot, no matter how cold he was, or hungry or scared, he didn't waver, didn't blink.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Rain. Buck hated it. Not when he was tucked in bed with a willing lady… Hell, that was one of life's great pleasures, lying there warm and snug, listening to the beat of the rain on the roof, making love and feeling like there was nobody else in the whole world. He'd sent JD down to stay with the horses. They couldn't afford losing them to panic in the storm. He sighed, put up the collar on his coat and looked at Chris.

Larabee was pushed back against an overhanging boulder that wasn't much shelter at all. He looked pale, cold, and there was a grim set to his mouth that Buck wasn't sure was due more to anger than pain. Buck had seen that look during the war, after battles when things had gone contrary to the way Chris had thought they ought to go, and he had no power to force them back in the tracks they had jumped. Buck figured Chris wanted to be with Vin, even if Tanner wasn't a man to ask or need help when it came to killing.

The sound of the rain Buck found so soothing, now only served to mask all other sounds except the thunder and lightning. A particularly sharp crack made Chris jump, his hand on his gun.

"Easy, ol' son. Ya ain't goin' anywhere," Buck said, hiding his concern with a grin.

Chris didn't return the smile. He sank back against the rock. He didn't speak, either, as if the effort to be heard over the storm was too great for his strength. His hands were clenched into fists, frustration in every line. His head tipped back, his green eyes hooded and unreadable.

Buck sighed. "I know ya wanta be out there, but this is somethin' Vin's gotta finish up himself. He only took help b'fore 'cause he wasn't able to do it himself. Those stripes on his back ain't gonna fade any faster than that revenge in his heart, and you know it."

Still no verbal reaction from Chris, just a flicker of light in those eyes that might have meant he agreed with Buck.

Buck admitted to himself he'd be a lot happier with his gun in his hand, but there was no point in exposing it to the rain and risk a misfire from the damp. He wasn't any happier than Chris with the situation, but he meant what he said, and maybe even knew it was the pure truth, about Vin needing to do this on his own. Larabee had never been a man to depend on anybody for anything. He seemed to take pleasure from wrapping himself in whatever solitude he could find, but somehow he and Tanner,even more solitary than Larabee, made a stronger team than he and Buck ever had.

Didn't make sense. Shouldn't make sense. Buck gave it up. He rolled over to his stomach and crawled to the rim of the ledge where he and Chris were holed up. The rain seemed to be letting up, the lightning less sharp and the thunder more of a long, low threat than the immediate crack of cannon fire. The shallow arroyo below was filling, a stream where there had been nothing but a dry channel a few minutes earlier.

He didn't like it. Not one bit. He reckoned he and Chris were all right, high enough to ride out a flash flood, but he couldn't see what was happening on the other side of the arroyo.

Chris crawled over to his side and peered out into the darkness. "I don't like it," he said and, this time, Buck laughed.

"I was just thinkin' the same thing. So, what are we gonna do about it?"

For the first time that night, Chris grinned back. He was carved thin, pale as bone. "What we have to do."

"Wasn't so long ago you were ready for the faintin' couch."

"I'm fine." When he saw Buck open his mouth he gave him a grim look. "You intend arguing with me?" he growled.

Buck held up his hands in surrender. "I'll wait 'til you're flat out with Nathan cussin' over ya." He stood and shook himself like a dog shedding drops of rain from his coat. "I'll git JD and the horses." He handed Chris the canteen. "Here. Drink."

Chris raised his brow. Buck laughed, remembering how often he'd wished Chris would stop drinking. This was different. That had been death, this was life.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin sensed the ending of the rain before it slowed, a diminuendo of thunder and lightning, then less of a weight hammering on his back, letting him breathe again. He took off his hat, wrung the water from his hair, shoved it back from his face and set his hat aside. The brim was so sodden it hung down heavily, more of a liability than an advantage.

He wondered how he could find Darwell. The rain would have obliterated all sign of his movements. He had one chance. He'd be breaking a promise to Chris, but that promise had been made when it seemed likely to be kept.

He felt a brief regret that his choice might cost him his friend or his life. It was a hell of a choice, but Chris was more likely to forgive and, if not, well, there were other towns in this world besides Four Corners.

Vin listened to the whisper of rain and looked down at the floor of the arroyo, not more than ten feet below. The water was rising and Vin knew the storm was moving north, upriver. If it carried the same weight of water, then there wasn't much time before it turned into a roiling, angry flood. It was move now, or give up.

Vin wasn't much for giving up.He braced himself and moved out of the shelter of the rocks.

Nothing. Not a sound, not a sign of Darwell.

Vin moved again, heading toward the last position he figured Darwell had fired from. His boots were heavy with mud and he looked down, thinking maybe Darwell had moved on. He'd leave prints – no man could glide over sodden earth. But he hadn't come this way. Vin walked slowly, his boots squelching softly. There were a few tumbled rocks, too small to be called boulders, ahead. Vin cocked the Winchester, carried its weight lightly in his hands. He reached the rocks.

Darwell had been there. A spent shell casing lay in the mud, but any other sign had been obliterated by the rain. No footprints, no marks. Damn! It looked like Darwell had moved on before the rain.

Vin crouched down, picked up the shell casing.

Where was the bastard? He couldn't have gone far in the rain, wouldn't have left without his prize. He looked up. No moon or stars, just the thick clouds that promised more rain, even though the storm front had blown past.

Vin tilted his head, just a slight alteration in perspective. Beneath the thin sheen of water, he saw the clearly defined outline of a boot. A shiver worked its way down his spine, one that was not due to being cold and wet, but to the pure, cold knowledge that he had found his prey.

He rose and stuck the shell casing in his pocket. Time to hunt, he whispered to himself. Time to die.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

There were no hiding places in the landscape beyond the rocks other than rain-flattened scrub and the skeletons of dry mesquite bushes. Not that he could see them clearly, just the brief shadow of their images when lightning picked them out. It reminded him of watching that Steele fellow take pictures in Purgatorio. Not good, because a man's eyes were fooled by that flash, brief as it was. Made him see things that might not be there, or miss things that were, like that shadow…

Man-size, man shape, and then gone. Or was it? On sheer instinct alone, Vin dropped to his knees. The crack of Darwell's rifle was thunder, the flash of the muzzle as blinding as lightning. The shot ripped through the cape of Vin's jacket, but it was a miss.

Vin's rifle came up and he fired, still seeing the imprint of light on his retina.

The shadow seemed to stagger. Vin fired again, his aim unwavering across fifty yards of darkness. He heard a hoarse gasp, as if he'd hit Darwell, but not trusting, he cocked and fired again.

No sound this time, but no sense his adversary's spirit had left the earth, either. Vin took his chances, running in a low crouch, not straight at his point of aim, but bobbing and weaving his way to a point parallel to Darwell's last position and about twenty yards away.

It was so dark. The lightning was fading as the storm moved on. Vin lay still, flat. Waiting.

Nothing. No sounds but the small noises of the night as life emerged from the pounding of the storm. A howl of coyote sounding lonely and far off.

Vin cocked his rifle and crawled over a few yards, then stilled as a lizard scurried off at the sound of his body sliding over the ground. Vin waited until the flicker of lightning gave him a brief moment of sight in the darkness.

The skeletal mesquite bush which had seemed to provide shelter for Darwell a few minutes earlier, now was nothing more than black branches shifting in the wind.  
Shit, Vin breathed. Darwell was gone…

How far? Was he watching? Could he see? Or had he leaked into the landscape to live another day? Questions Vin couldn't answer.

He crawled over to the bush and cautiously sat up. Either Darwell was night-blind, or gone.

Vin dropped his head, his wet hair hanging down on either side of his face. Overwhelmed with exhaustion and close to despair, he sat there. Dully, he was aware of horses approaching, but his mind told him that more than one horse wasn't Darwell. He raised his head. A single, pale beam of light from a covered lantern pierced the darkness. Vin stood up and waited for the horsemen to reach him.

Buck, Chris, JD. His brief anger at their appearance faded in the warmth of knowing they'd come for him.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck, Chris and JD had no sooner mounted up when they heard the first shot. Buck heard Chris gasp and reached for the reins, holding him back. "Chris… ain't no use galloping in this muck."

"We have to get across that arroyo before it floods," Chris said tersely.

"Fine, we will, but take it easy. One shot don't mean a thing."

Chris turned to him. "One shot could mean somebody's dead." He tugged the reins out of Buck's grasp and headed as quickly as he dared down the slope of the arroyo, conscious all the while that there had been no other shots fired.

Aside from the blue-white flare of lightning, it was nearly pitch-black. Chris could hardly see his hand in front of his face. He had to ride carefully, keeping Pony to a slow and steady pace even though the gelding was fighting him, still edgy from the lingering electricity in the air and probably from Chris's nerves. He was conscious of Buck riding a few paces behind him and JD leading Peso farther behind them yet. He marveled at the control the youth had over Vin's skittish and temperamental mount.

They crossed the arroyo. The water was already rising to the horses' hocks. As they gained the opposite slope, a quick, hot flash of light caught Chris's eye, and before his brain even registered what it was, he heard the flat crack of two rifle shots.

"There!" Chris wheeled Pony. "Over there!" He touched his heels to Pony's flank. and urged him toward the point he had seen the flash of rifle fire. He hadn't gone far when Pony began struggling for purchase in the mud-slick earth beneath his hooves. Frustrated, Chris swore and reined in. He couldn't ride fast, and God, he was afraid to ride slowly. He couldn't see into the darkness, the storm was far gone enough that the lightning was too faint to shed any illumination. The silence, without thunder, rain or gunfire, was deafening. He would have screamed his anger to the sky if he'd thought it would do anything but make things more dangerous for Vin if Darwell were still out there. So, he sat in the saddle, defeated, angry, and, God help him, afraid.

"Here." Buck held out a shielded lantern. "Present from JD."

That brought Chris's head up. "What?"

"Hell, we're stumblin' around here like three blind mice. Maybe we oughtta shed a little light on the subject."

"Darwell—"

"Four against one is mighty big odds. Darwell don't strike me as a gamblin' man, or a fool."

Chris tipped his hat in acknowledgement. "Let's find Vin and end this." Even as he spoke, it seemed an impossible task. But he knew where he had seen the rifle flashes as clearly as if it had been imprinted on his eyes. He kept the lantern at a pencil-thin beam and at a more sensible pace, they moved on.

There was a mesquite bush, old and thin, in front of them, and from that nearly insubstantial cover, movement. A slow unfolding of a man's body. He heard the cock of Buck's pistol, nearly inaudible. Unnecessary. He held his hand up. He'd know that slouch anywhere.

"Nice night for a huntin' party," Chris drawled. "You lookin' for company?"

"Wasn't lookin'. Maybe hopin'." Vin's voice was a reedy rasp of exhaustion.

Chris dismounted. "Looks like you got it."

Vin gave him a ghost of a smile as his knees buckled and he sank to the ground.


	15. Chapter 15

Even if Vin had been in any shape to continue the hunt, it was pointless in the dark. They couldn't go back to their original campsite on the other side of the arroyo. The rising water had made crossing it too dangerous for the horses. They went instead to Darwell's former position where there was some shelter.

JD managed to get a small fire going against Vin's objections, which subsided when he brewed up a pot of coffee. It was obvious that both Chris and Vin needed heat and some food before either would be able to continue the hunt.

What brief energy had carried Larabee across the arroyo and had driven him to find Vin in the rain and darkness had fled. He was pale, even in the ruddy firelight. And if Nathan could see Vin, he'd drag the tracker up to his clinic and set Nettie out to guard the door – not to keep visitors out, but to keep Tanner in. He still might when they finally got back to town.

But, right now, despite his exhaustion, it was pretty clear that nobody stood a chance of distracting Tanner from his goal. Buck sure wasn't going to get in the way. Still, judging from what he saw in both of his friends, a few hours of rest until dawn would do them both a world of good. Wouldn't hurt any of them.

He motioned JD to his side. "I'll take first watch, kid. You get some rest."

"I'm—"

Buck silenced him with a scowl. "When are ya gonna stop arguin' with me? Ya know ya ain't gonna win."

Dunne grinned. "Maybe I don't know. Maybe I'll just keep it up until I do win."

Buck rolled his eyes. "You ain't gonna win tonight. So get some rest."

The others were quiet, exhausted. Buck poured another mug of coffee and settled in to watch, his collar raised against the mist. The horses were calm, which seemed a good sign. He sipped the hot beverage, still marveling that JD had thought to pack provisions and a lantern, and still traveled light. Seemed there were brains beneath that damned sissy bowler hat of his after all.

The mist dissipated gradually and as the night wore on, Buck could see a few faint stars peeking through the clouds. Seemed it would actually be light enough to track once the sun rose. After two hours, JD stirred, and yawning, came to take his turn on the watch. Buck stretched out and before he even had a chance to think about it, he was asleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin wasn't sleeping. He heard Chris's measured respiration and knew the gunslinger wasn't having the same trouble, but Vin figured if he'd lost as much blood as Larabee had, maybe he'd be asleep, too. Couldn't figure out why everybody was looking at him like he was the one who needed rest. He was wet, cold, hungry. Weren't they all? He opened his eyes a slit. JD was taking watch while Buck rested.

Part of Vin wished Buck and JD had gone right back to Four Corners, but most of him was glad they hadn't, even though he'd be taking them right back into danger. Odds never meant much to Vin, he knew one man with a rifle and good aim could decimate an enemy. Usually, he was that one man. This time it might be Darwell. The only thing Vin could do was make sure he didn't have a chance to use it.

His eyes could already tell the difference in the light, although dawn was still a few hours off. As soon as he could distinguish shapes, they'd be off. Resolutely, he closed his eyes again, and, this time, he was able to drift into a light doze – not the deep sleep he truly needed, but enough to replenish some of his resources.

It was a short enough time until he roused to find he could see the movement of his hand in front of his face. He stood, aching in every muscle and joint, his back tight and painful. He nodded to JD and stepped just beyond the campsite to relieve himself and work out the stiffness in his body. By the time he returned, JD had a fresh pot of coffee going and Chris was hunkered down next to the fire, holding a mug and looking cross.

He appraised Vin, frowned at him. "You sleep?"

"Reckon I got what I needed."

"Don't look it."

Vin gave a wordless snort of laughter. No point in even making a reply to that one. He took the mug JD offered with a nod of thanks. There wasn't much to go with it – some hardtack and jerky, but he chewed it dutifully. He couldn't help thinking longingly of Nettie's lighter than air biscuits, country ham and pan gravy. His stomach growled and he swallowed, hoping that, if nothing else, the food would weigh it down. Maybe his physical hunger would give drive to the urge to end this with Darwell. What was it Josiah said, "To sleep, perchance to dream?" That sounded good, real good.

He rose from his crouch, dumped the last swallow of coffee and grounds on the fire. "Time to hunt," he said, and went to saddle Peso.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They got their first break when Vin retraced his steps from last night, though Chris wondered how he could do that when all he recalled was rain and darkness. It was like Tanner had a compass in his brain, able to follow some sort of magnetic north, and the rest of them just went along for the ride. Chris was the only one who wasn't surprised when Vin found his hat right where he had dropped it last night. Vin hung it from his saddle pommel by the latigo, and kept moving.

He reined in and dismounted by the clump of mesquite bushes where they had found him last night. He studied the ground for a long time, blue eyes narrowed, head tilted. Then he bent and touched a few blades of the sparse grass. He held up his fingers. Reddish brown stained them. Despite his grin, there was no laughter in his face. "Hit him. Thought I mighta. And he ain't on horseback."

In the dark and rain, from God knows how far away, and Vin had still managed to hit his target. JD's mouth hung open until Buck jogged his elbow and told him to stop catching flies.

Vin remained on foot, stopping every few yards to study the ground, touch a bit of grass or earth, rising with an occasional soft exhalation of satisfaction when he found more blood. This time the blood trail was Darwell's.

The landscape was changing. Even in the few miles they had traveled, there was more elevation, more rock formations that they hadn't been able to see in the dark. Vin was clearly becoming more uneasy as the possibility Darwell was holed up behind one of the fortress-like formations became more likely. The blood was still marking the trail, and Vin wondered why Darwell hadn't tied up the wound to keep it from dripping. Was he doing it on purpose? Using his own blood as a lure? Or had Vin's bullet left a wound so serious that it couldn't be bound up?

He looked up at Chris. "Keep an eye out. Looks like he's still on the move, but I don't know how long this trail will last."

"I wouldn't feel anything but glad if we found him dead at the end of it," Chris replied. He straightened in the saddle and winced. His own wound had stopped bleeding, but it felt hot and ached fiercely. "Might not be much satisfaction in it for you—"

"I ain't lookin' fer satisfaction." Color tinged Vin's pale cheeks. "I jist want…" He fell silent.

"Justice?" Chris asked quietly.

Vin nodded. "Guess that's the word."

"You'll get it."

"Not if I don't find Darwell." He gathered his thoughts. "Trail's been leading north fer a while. I'm thinkin' there's water ahead in those red rocks. If he's losin' blood, he's gonna be thirsty. The rain riled things up enough he'll be drinkin' mud if he don't find clean-running water soon."

Buck had joined them in time to hear Vin's last thoughts. "You aimin' to head straight at him?"

Vin sighed. "Don't know."

Buck frowned. "Seems like we could do this the easy way, or the smart way." He paused, waiting for Chris or JD to make some crack about which way he would choose, but they remained silent and serious. "Easy is there's four of us and one of him. If we keep north and ride down his throat, he might pick one of us off before we get him—"

Vin shook his head. "He could pick all of us off if he gits me first. I ain't riskin' that."  
Buck grinned. "Then I reckon we go for the smart way."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They split up once again, Buck and JD heading west, Chris, east, and Vin tracking the blood trail, Chris traveling a parallel line to him, watching out for a possible ambush.

As Vin followed the trail, he became more certain that his shot had been a good one, even in the dark. He paused and knelt in the dirt, reading the signs better than most men could read words. They told him the blood was dripping from Darwell's right side. When he touched the stain on the grass it told him he was catching up to his quarry. The earlier blood had been nearly dry and no flies were buzzing over at it. These newer stains were tacky and the flies were still swarming over the drops like there was something sweet in its taste.

He squinted into the near distance. The terrain was working to his advantage, the increasing altitude and broken landscape were a minor hindrance to him, but for an injured man losing blood, those factors made every step a greater effort than the last, and the more effort, the more the blood flow. He brushed the flies away and touched the stain. He scented the blood on his fingers – clean, no hint of gut. Maybe an arm or a hand, judging from the way the splatter was falling.

The occasional heavier scuff in the dirt of a faltering step told Vin that the wound was taking its toll on Darwell.

There was a low mesa rising ahead, the slopes strewn with boulders. Even from a mile or so away, it looked like prime shelter. That's where the son of a bitch was holed up, waiting and watching. Vin figured he had a safety margin of a few hundred yards, probably longer. He wasn't going to take any chances on how good a shot Darwell was still capable of making.

He looked over at Chris. Larabee was paused low to the ground as well, waiting for Vin. His head was tilted slightly, enough to catch any signal Vin would make, but still alert to the possibility of sighting Darwell, if he were to get careless.

Vin nodded and motioned with his hand that Chris should move ahead. The trail was still leading them on.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck didn't like it one bit. He'd never liked the idea of splitting up to begin with, and it no sooner seemed he'd solved that once, than here they were again, him and JD heading off on their own, Vin and Chris in tandem, but not really.

Buck reined in and waited for JD to come alongside him. Being on horseback, they'd covered more territory than the others, and were on the west side of the mesa. Buck had kept tabs on the others and was still amazed that while Chris was fairly easy to spot, Vin seemed to shimmer and blend into the land, staying nearly invisible until he moved, or until he stayed still for long enough for Buck to pick out his form against the backdrop of stones and low scrub.

JD looked up at the rocks instead of searching for Chris and Vin. He tilted his bowler hat and squinted into the strengthening sunlight. "Getting hot," he said.

"Yeah."

"Think he's up there?"

"Vin seems ta think he's up there. I reckon that's what matters."

"Do we keep going on?" JD asked.

"Seems like we do."

"Good."

The sound of grim satisfaction in JD's voice made Buck give a short nod. Sometimes Buck wondered if the kid were cut out for this life. There was a lot of world out there beyond Four Corners, and he hoped JD would live long enough to see it. "C'mon, Vin's on the move again."

JD nodded and they turned the horses to head toward the higher ground. As the terrain rose, he felt more and more exposed, the grasses and scrub growing thinner as the soil became more rocky and inhospitable. The rocks, which had seemed no more than three or four feet in diameter from the plain below, were suddenly looming over his head, giving Darwell all sorts of shelter, all sorts of vantage points. His fingers itched to take out his gun and cock it, to be prepared to fire. He risked a glance at Buck and saw him stroking the end of his moustache with his thumb, a nervous habit JD sometimes wondered if Buck even knew he had. He knew Ezra had taken note of it, much to the big man's bafflement at the poker table. That Buck was doing it now, wasn't much assurance to JD.

"These rocks are pretty big, huh?"

Buck tilted his head. "Yeah, big, and good cover." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "Keep an eye out."

"Where am I supposed to look?" JD asked, his voice as low as Buck's but the sarcasm clear. "Left, right, up, down?"

"All of them."

"Geez, Buck!" The words were lost in gunfire.

Buck cried out, his hand clapping to his shoulder as he reeled in the saddle. JD grabbed his horse's reins before the animal could bolt in fright, reined in his own mount and Buck's, slid from the saddle as another shot rang out and half-dragged Buck off his horse. The third shot shaved splinters from a boulder just to JD's right, and he pulled Buck to the left, behind a large boulder.

Wilmington was cussing, blood welling through his fingers. He tugged off his bandanna and tried to fold it into a bandage with his left hand. JD jerked it from his fingers, made a pad, and shoved it into the wound, making Buck yelp. "Just hold it there, hard!" he ordered.

Momentarily, Buck obeyed. Long enough for JD to tie the pad in place, not long enough to keep him off his feet. As soon as JD tied up the bandanna, he was on the move, scrambling to recover his gun from the dirt, breathing hard while black specks swam in front of his eyes and his arm felt like it was on fire and useless at the same time.

It had only been a few minutes since Darwell's first shot, long enough for the bastard to reload, and start firing just as he reached his gun. Dirt kicked up not two feet away and Buck snatched his hand back, his fingers barely hooked through the trigger guard. "Goddamn bastard!" he hissed. He couldn't even tell where Darwell was firing from, only that it was higher up than they were. He peered upwards and saw nothing – no shadows cast by the milky sunlight.

"You see him?" JD hissed.

Buck shook his head. "We gotta get outta here. He's got us pinned down."

"Only until Chris and Vin—" JD broke off as the truth came to him in a rush. "Jesus, Buck. He's using us for bait!"

"He can't use us both," Buck said. "You stay here. I'm goin' up those rocks, see if I can't– What?"

JD was shaking his head. "You're going up those rocks? With a bullet in you and still bleeding? It ain't gonna happen that way. I'll go up the rocks."

"Kid—"

But JD was on the move and Buck knew he was right. He loaded his gun and began firing, hoping to draw Darwell's attention and fire from JD's advance.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The shots cracked through the air like the stroke of a whip. Vin stopped dead in his tracks, knowing what the sounds were, but hearing that whip in his mind like it was Darwell himself standing over him. His breath left him, the ground beneath his feet was shifting and unsteady.

"Vin!"

Chris was charging toward him, stumbling a bit over the uneven terrain, his face terrible and hard, angry.

Everything snapped back into focus – sight, sound, terrain. He didn't look at Chris as he began running, running as if time were flowing past him like water. Darwell had already taken so much from him, he wasn't going to let him take the lives of his friends as well.

He knew Chris was trying to keep up, but years of hunting over rough terrain had given Vin the advantage of speed and balance. He heard Larabee breathing hard, his pace irregular as he struggled over the uneven ground, following in Vin's footsteps to avoid unseen pitfalls. Vin nearly slowed to allow Chris time to catch up, but fear drove him on. It only took a second for a shot to take a life.

He gained the rocks, then was forced to slow down as the slope of the land and the treacherous footing made caution necessary. He cursed under his breath. There was another volley of shots – Buck's gun. And, then, silence.

Chris caught up to him, his breath seeming loud in the silence and Vin raised a finger to his lips. "I think we got ourselves a stand-off," Larabee whispered.

"Not if I c'n help it." Vin shoved the Mare's Leg at Chris. "Give me yer Colt."

"Vin—"

"'S all right. I know what I'm doin'."

Chris had his doubts, but he took the gun from Vin and handed over his Colt. Even he knew a man shot better with his own gun. Vin must have seen the doubt in his expression.

"This ain't no gunfight where the fastest man wins," he said quietly. "It's the one where the man's got the most to lose, wins. An' I reckon that's me." He checked the Colt, took the bullets Chris handed to him and loaded the chamber. "'Sides, y' got any doubts I c'n handle this?"

"I ain't so sure I can handle this!" Grinning, Chris hefted the Mare's Leg.

"All y' gotta do is fire into the air, make it sound like I'm comin' from a different direction than I am. Ready?"

Chris nodded. "Let's get the bastard."

He waited until Vin ran low and fast to the right, before he began his move up the slope. He paused, cocked the Winchester and fired. The sound echoed through the rocks, distinctive and different than the small arms fire. But there was no answering fire. He moved again, less cautious this time, wondering what the hell Darwell was waiting for. He slid behind a rock and fired again into the air.

He saw Vin pause in his advance as if he were as puzzled as Chris by the lack of response. He gestured downward with his palm, telling Chris to stay put and stay quiet. Chris didn't like it, but he nodded his assent. They weren't so far from the rim that he couldn't move quickly if needed, and Tanner wasn't a man who needed much help when it came to a shootout.


	16. Chapter 16

Vin might not have needed much help, but JD felt like bullets were flying from six directions at once. His first instinct was to protect Buck, his second, to keep Darwell from seeing Vin and Chris approaching from his back. The man couldn't know that, could he? JD wasn't so sure. But he kept on climbing, game and determined, as he heard Buck's pistol crack out. There was no answering shot from Darwell and JD wondered where the man had gone that he couldn't be seen. Maybe Vin was right and Darwell was the spawn of the devil.

Then, suddenly, JD heard the distinctive fire of Vin's Winchester and the sharp bang of Chris's big Colt revolvers. Before he could blink, another rifle shot rang out – Darwell's – from his right, and slightly above him.

Got you! he whispered to himself and heaved himself up the last few feet of rocky ground.

What he didn't know, and couldn't have anticipated, was that the ground at the crest of the ridge had been eroded by time and the recent rains, and even his slight weight would undermine the stability. He felt the soil start giving way even as he rolled over the edge, felt his shoulder begin the slide and instinctively dug in his boots, trying for some sort of purchase. He tucked his gun tight against his side, protecting it from the dirt and realized there was nothing he could do but hope he wouldn't stop the slide by cracking his head or ribs against solid rock.

He didn't think he would stop the slide at Clyde Darwell's feet. He was on his belly, his gun still beneath him, and when he opened his eyes a slit, even stinging as they were with grit and tears, he was looking at the toes of a pair of filthy boots. He shuttered his eyes quickly, hoping Darwell would think he was unconscious. He heard the crunch of the dirt as Darwell moved and, half-anticipating, wasn't too surprised when the toe of one of those boots drew back and gave him a good kick in the ribs – not enough to do damage, but enough to make a man cry out at the unexpected impact. But JD wasn't stupid and he forced himself to be still even though the sharp pain shot down his side. He'd bruised his ribs plenty of times and this was no worse than that.

Be still, he told himself. Wait for it. He's gonna try to turn you over and when he does, you can get that shot off.

He heard Darwell pacing around him, heard another sound, too – more shots from the Winchester. Funny, they weren't even close, he realized, and then took advantage of the next round to cock his pistol. With his other hand, he dug up a fistful of dirt, and waited. Come on, you bastard. Turn me over.

And Darwell did, crouching down next to JD.

JD threw the fistful of dirt hard into Darwell's face. When the man stood and staggered back, JD didn't even pause to think, he took his shot, the noise shockingly loud, the impact driving Darwell away from JD. The boy scrambled to his feet, his pistol cocked and ready.

JD stood breathing hard, his hand wrapped around the Colt shaking so hard he couldn't have made another shot if his life depended on it. His shot had sent Darwell hard against the rocks, the impact forcing him to drop his gun. His shirt was stained and filthy. Vin's shot had caught him in his left arm, and that sleeve was soaked with blood. But it was the blood welling between the fingers of his right hand, and the way it was clutched around his belly that made JD swallow hard.

"JD!" Vin rasped out as he gained the slope. There was nothing shaky about Vin's aim. "Git his gun," he ordered, seeing JD was beyond making another shot. He stood over Darwell, Chris's Colt trained and steady. JD took a few shaky steps over and picked up Darwell's gun like it was a snake about to bite him.

"He dead?" JD asked.

"He's gut-shot." Vin sounded disgusted.

"Oh," JD whispered, only half-aware of the implications. A man who was gut shot was as dead as if he'd taken a bullet to the brain – only it was a lot slower and a lot more painful. "What're ya gonna do?"

For a moment, Vin didn't say anything. He turned slowly and looked at Dunne. "Where's Bucklin?"

His voice gave JD the shivers. "Down the slope a ways. He's okay."

Vin nodded. "Chris should be comin' up this way soon. You wait with Buck."

There was an odd, still quality to Vin's voice, and there was nothing in his eyes that JD wanted to see, or recognize. "Vin?"

"Git outta here, kid."

"B-but—"

"Git!" Spoken with emphasis, but not with any more emotion than that. JD fled.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin sat on a rock and looked down at Clyde Darwell. He should have felt something, he supposed. Josiah would have told him what he should have felt, but didn't, and he could have pretended he felt sympathy, or remorse. He didn't. He didn't even feel any triumph. He felt cheated. It wasn't JD's fault that he'd taken Vin's kill from him – and maybe it was a good thing he had, since Vin hadn't had much luck in that department when it came down to the man laying in the dirt.

He examined Darwell dispassionately, noting the blood on his sleeve. That was where his bullet had caught him last night, the wound leaving the blood trail that had led to this place, like he'd wanted Vin to find him. Darwell looked sick and old, oddly broken. Not like the demon who had hunted Vin down and beat him bloody. Not like the shadowy menace who had pursued him down the days and nights, haunting him until he doubted his courage and believed it was lost to him as surely as his good name had been taken from him by Eli Joe. Not like the killer who had taken so many lives, cruelly, and for no reason but malicious pleasure. No, Vin didn't feel anything for Darwell at all.

He pulled the big Bowie knife from its sheath and held it in his hands. The edge was sharp and sleek and it could cut through the hide of a rabbit or small game with no more resistance than butter. A man was different – bone and muscle could grip so hard that it was like life itself was holding the blade tight – but Vin had killed men with it, too. Had cut bullets out of his own flesh and had even cut himself to suck out snake poison. He'd used the hot blade to seal wounds, leaving scars on his own flesh. It was what you did to survive.

"I should've killed you…"

Vin nearly jumped at the raspy whisper that came from Darwell's throat. He hadn't even noticed the man had opened his eyes. Daydreaming, that's what caused this whole damn thing in the first place.

"Yeah, you should 'a," Vin agreed and hoped his voice wasn't shaking. "But y' didn't, and I'm sittin' here, watchin' y' die." He weighed the knife in his hand. "Could take a long time… I seen it before."

"Kill me."

Vin shook his head. "That'd be too easy. I seen what y' did to that whore in Purgatorio, and t' that station agent. I seen what y' done t' that poor little girl back in Texas, and I ain't never forgotten that. I ain't in an all-fired hurry t' git outta here. I reckon I could sit here… four, maybe five days. I got friends who could use some rest, and horses that's been rode hard. Y' ever seen a gut-shot man die, Clyde?" From the flash of fear he saw in Darwell's eyes, Vin reckoned he had.

"For God's sake!" Darwell's hand left his belly and he held a bloody palm out to Vin. "Kill me!"

Vin laughed softly, without mirth. "Shit, Clyde, y' don't believe in God any more 'n I do. But y' know what? I b'lieve in Hell. I been there a few times. Been there since y' found me that night, so I reckon y' owe me them five days 'a slow dying."

Please.

Darwell's lips formed the word, but there was no sound. Vin stood and went over to him, standing there, the blade of the Bowie knife glinting in the pale, rain-washed sunlight. "Did that whore beg? Did little Maria beg? Did they ask y' t' show 'em that one mercy?" Vin had to spit out the bile that rose in his throat. "I got that one thing that they ain't. I didn't beg ya, did I?"

Darwell's head moved and a smile twisted his lips, but he didn't speak.

Vin knelt. He held the blade of the knife against Darwell's throat. "I c'n do this real easy, Clyde. Take less 'n a breath. I jist want y' t' give me back what y' took from me."

Darwell shook as a spasm of pain moved through his torn gut. He groaned as tears gathered and rolled down the dirt and blood on his face, but he wouldn't give Vin that satisfaction.

"Five days," Vin whispered. "I never begged."

He could see hate, fear, pain all moving through Darwell's dark eyes.

"Tell me, and it's over."

Vin started to stand and Darwell grabbed at his arm with surprising strength. He was breathing hard, and each breath must have been an agony. Bloody spittle formed on his lips and they drew back in a snarl that gave way to defeat as pain roiled through him. He looked away from Vin, closed his eyes. "Ya… never… begged."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris dropped the bullet he'd dug out of Buck's shoulder into the dirt. Wilmington cussed and spat out the wadded up bandanna he'd been biting down on.

"Here." Chris handed him the canteen of whiskey. "Take it easy. There ain't much left and it's a long ride back home." He bound up the wound and tied Buck's bandanna into a sling. "Longer with you riding one-handed." 

He stood and stretched out the kinks in his back. Lord, he felt a thousand years old. He looked up at the ridge and wondered what the hell was going on up there. But he didn't wonder enough to want to find out. There were some things a man had to do in private, and JD had said that Darwell was gut-shot and as good as dead. That bit of information had given Chris no end of satisfaction. Vin would come down when he was good and ready and not a moment sooner.

"Wonder what's going on up there?" JD whispered, echoing Chris's thoughts. "Think we should—"

"No." Chris shoved two canteens into Dunne's hand. "There's a spring down in those rocks. Fill these up."

JD didn't even think of questioning Larabee. He'd been on the receiving end of Chris's temper more than once and always ended up feeling like a goddamn fool. "Sure." But he looked up at the ridge one last time before he set off to get the water.

"What d' ya think?" Buck asked, his usually robust voice just a whisper.

"I think Vin knows what he's doin'."

"Hell, I know he does, but there's more to this than we know, Chris."

"Then maybe we should just leave it at that." Chris sat wearily and lit a cheroot. "And wait."

JD came back with the canteens. Buck fell asleep. Chris finished his cheroot and threw the butt into the small fire he'd built. JD stared into the flames, seeing Darwell's cruel face laughing at him in the moment before… "It's my fault, Chris."

"What?"

"I shot Darwell."

Chris lifted the brim of his hat with a long forefinger. "Don't see what else you could 'a done."

"I know… But maybe I cheated Vin outta somethin' he had to do."

"You think Vin would rather have you dead just so he can get some revenge? You think he's that kinda man?"

JD shook his head, his dark fringe of bangs falling over his eyes. "I just—"

"Don't think about it, kid. You did what you had to do." And so will Vin, Chris added silently, although he wondered if that meant waiting for Darwell to die. He wouldn't push Vin to forsake his revenge any more than Tanner would have asked him to leave off the hunt for Sarah and Adam's killers, but Buck was hurt and he didn't feel too good himself. And leaving the kid to brood on what was happening a few hundred feet away wouldn't do JD any good, either. Maybe he should just pack them up and leave in the morning, give Vin time and space to do what he needed – no matter what that need was.

He must have dozed off because he came awake with a jerk, his hand automatically going for his holster at the slight noise that had jolted him to alertness. Vin was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, legs crossed Indian-fashion. He was bent over something, and at first Chris couldn't tell what it was through the wavering light. He squinted and saw Vin cleaning his knife, rubbing it with fine sand, then water, then drying it off until no more moisture remained on the blade. It took him a long time, and he paid no more mind to Chris than if he hadn't been sitting and watching just a few feet away.

Chris didn't speak, didn't hardly move but to stretch out his legs. When Vin finally sheathed his knife, Chris stood and slowly approached him. He dangled the canteen of whiskey from his fingers. "You want this?"

Vin took it from him and nodded. "Thanks." He drank a deep swallow, seemed to shudder at the raw bite, and took another drink. He looked up at Chris, his blue eyes weary and shadowed, but clear. "He's dead."

Chris nodded. He knew better than to ask questions. "What now?"

"C'n you an' Buck ride?"

"If we have to."

"I'll ride." Both Chris and Vin turned to Buck. He had pushed himself upright with a grimace of pain, but also determination. "Don't want to stay here, that's for sure."

"I figure we c'n make Purgatorio by dusk." Vin handed the canteen to Buck. "I got somethin' I need t' do there." He looked at JD. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah," JD stammered a bit. He wanted more than anything to ask what had happened to Darwell, but with both Buck and Chris casting warning glances at him, he figured it would be a cold day in hell before he found out. And that was all right, he realized.

Chris nodded, satisfied. "Let's ride."

They closed camp and mounted up, riding west as the sun broke through the clouds.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They rode into Purgatorio like a company of ghosts – pale, silent – and the few people who saw them backed away into the shadows.

Vin reined in at the back of Jake's cantina and slid from the saddle with a weary grunt. Chris followed, taking a moment to walk around Pony, as if he were checking him out, but, in truth, he was too tired and sore to move fast. He stood at the side of Buck's mare and waited for the big man to dismount. After making sure Wilmington wouldn't collapse in the dirt, he tossed the reins to JD. "Take the horses. Stable 'em."

JD wanted to argue, but one look at the three older men stopped his objections on his lips. He led the horses back to the small shelter Jake had built at the back of the cantina. Not quite a stable, but someplace a man could tether his horse and know it would be safe.

They went inside and Vin asked one of the kitchen maids to get Jake. She nodded and hurried away. He canted his head toward the stairs and they followed his lead silently, Buck moving the slowest of them all, but still upright. He made it until they were in Jake's quarters then collapsed on the bed. "One step farther and I'd be laid out on the floor," he groaned.

Vin pulled the bottle of tequila from the wardrobe. "Mebbe this'll put some starch back in ya," he rasped, his voice betraying his own weariness. He sank down on his haunches, his hands lax on his knees. Chris thought he looked like a puff of a breeze would knock him flat, but Tanner was deceiving. Just when you thought there was nothing more than a wisp of strength in him, you learned that wisp was like steel wire. Still, a man had to have limits, and Vin couldn't be far from the last reach of his.

There was a knock on the door and Carmela entered with her bag of herbs and potions. She nodded to Chris, but went immediately to Buck's side and touched his forehead, frowning. Her hands moved surely as she cut strips of cloth into bandages, ground herbs and mixed them with water in a pestle. Chris decided he didn't really want to watch her deal with Buck's wound and it seemed Vin felt the same way. They got to their feet and went down to the cantina.

They sat at a table at the back of the room, dark and shadowed, private as you could get in a public place. Jake was working the bar, but when he saw them, he tossed his towel to a young man and came over to the table with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.

"You're back," he said.

"Yeah," Vin answered and poured his drink.

"Darwell?"

"He's dead," Vin answered and fell silent. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded bandanna, opened it, and took out a hank of coarse black hair. For a moment Chris half-expected to see skin attached to the scalp end, but Vin hadn't gone that far, just cut it off. He held it out to Jake. "Y' want proof?"

Jake looked surprised. "No! Dios, Vincente!" He shook his head. "Where is his body?" There was something of fear there, as if Darwell weren't truly dead.

Vin felt anger, perhaps a bit of betrayal that this oldest of friends would doubt him. Was that still Darwell's legacy? To never have that belief back? "Left it fer the coyotes. Y' think he deserved more 'n that?"

It was spoken like a challenge, defiant, and Chris thought that if he could see the hurt in Vin's eyes, then surely Esteban must see it as well. Jake leaned forward, not touching Vin, but not afraid, either. "He deserved to die like a dog in the street, amigo."

A slight flush stained Vin's cheekbones. He was about to speak, but before he could, a disturbance at the door made Jake swivel in his chair, his dark eyes narrow and hard. He'd built a life here, not much of one according to some folks, but all he had. Vin couldn't fault him for protecting that – wasn't it what damaged people did when they were too damn stubborn to lay down and die? He felt Chris watching him and looked up defensively. "What?"

"I was thinking that if you'd come in with the body, you'd get that bounty."

Vin's laugh was short and forced. "That'd be somethin'. A man with a bounty on his head bringin' in another bounty. I ain't so eager t' hang."

"I would have done it for you. Hell, so would have Buck and JD, if it came down to that."

"Well, it didn't and it won't. Darwell's dead and that's all the bounty I ever wanted." He shoved away from the table. "I'm goin' fer a walk and I don't want no shadow but m' own, y' hear?" He gathered up the bandanna from the table and left. Chris's first instinct was to follow, but he wasn't in such a hurry to die. He poured another whiskey, then taking the bottle with him, went upstairs to see how Buck was doing.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin ghosted through the streets of Purgatorio feeling the gaze of others watching from doorways and windows. For once, he had no fear of them for he sensed his power again – like he had during the war when men shied away from his shadow like death was something he carried with him. Word had spread. He had killed the devil and made his soul weep in the desert.

He stopped in front of the whorehouse where Darwell had killed the whore, Alma. He went inside. The lamps were lit, but turned low. Three whores sat in chairs, waiting for customers. One of them, bolder than the others, rucked up her skirt nearly to her waist. Vin turned away from her to the old woman sitting in the shadows. He didn't speak to her, just let fall the bandanna in her lap.

She opened it, let the coarse black strands sift through her fingers. "El pelo del Diablo," she whispered. "Para Alma?"

"Si, usted deseo," Vin told her and left. He went to Jake's stables and mounted Peso, riding out of town into the surrounding desert. He reached into his pocket, took out a second bandanna and a pack of lucifers. He struck one, then lit the bandanna on fire. The cotton burned hot and fast and for a moment, the acrid odor of burning hair struck the back of Vin's throat. He coughed and spat out the taste. He stood looking down at the smoldering ashes that were all that remained of Clyde Darwell on this earth, but for the gnawed bones of his body left to bleach and dry to dust.

A wind came up and the ashes swirled away from Vin, leaving only the clean scent of the desert night in his lungs. He hadn't begged. He hadn't looked for mercy. He'd asked no quarter from the devil. He was free of Darwell, and to Hell with all the other demons that rode with him over rough stones. He had friends watching his back. He hauled himself into the saddle and rode toward the small lights of Purgatorio.

 

**The End**


End file.
